A  GARDEN  OF 
PARIS 


ELIZABETH  WALLACE 


(fiamtrr  (^rt«j0a 


■   .  .■  ,■  ■  i^    ^»  y 


A  GARDEN  OF  PARIS 


A  GARDEN  OF  PARIS 


BY 

ELIZABETH  WALLACE 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 

FRED  J.  ARTING 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1911 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1911 


Published  September,  1911 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


The  Caslon  Press 
Chicago 


Dedicated  to 
La  Petite  Grand'niere 

with 
affectionate  homage 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Gray  House  of  the 

Garden 13 

II  Visions 24 

III  Realities 28 

IV  Action 35 

V  The  Heart  of  the  City      .  43 

VI  Tante  Placide       ....  50 

VII  The  Vanity  of  Learning    .  57 

VIII  The  Shadows  in  the  Gar- 

den       66 

IX  Wedding  Bells    ....  75 

X  Futility 85 

XI  The  Loneliness  of  Bleu- 

bleu 90 

XII  Philosophy  and  Poetry     .  97 

XIII  Dreamers 104 

XIV  An  Invasion  of  the  Garden  113 

XV  Dramatic  Reflections   .     .  119 

XVI  La  Petite  Grand' mere  .     .  127 


CONTENTS  —  Continued 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XVII 

The  Garden  after  a  Storm 

136 

XVIII 

Dinners  and  Doubts     .     . 

146 

XIX 

The  Pilgrimage       .     .     . 

154 

XX 

163 

XXI 

When  East  Meets  West  . 

174 

XXII 

The  Romance  of  Madem- 

oiselle Donatienne    .     . 

179 

XXIII 

The  Revelation   .... 

188 

XXIV 

Evening  in  the  Garden     . 

194 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Still  Waters  of  the  Lake  Frontispiece 

Rain  in  the  Garden 13 

Notre  Dame 35 

Fontainebleau 45 

The  Green  Doors 50 

The  Merle  in  the  Garden 57 

Shadows  in  the  Garden 66 

The  Old  Church 77 

The  Bibliotlieque  Rationale    .     ...     87 

The  Garden  Invaded 113 

The  Comedie 121 

The  Garden  after  a  Storm      ....  136 

The  Chateau 155 

A  Ride  to  the  Town  by  the  Sea    .     .     .174 

The  Long  Main  Street 188 

Across  the  Sea 194 


//  /^ 


L  / 


WI/j 


/  // 


A  GARDEN  OF  PARIS 


The  Gray  House  of  the  Garden 

'TpO-DAY  the  garden  has  been  deluged  with 
■*-  rain.  Sometimes  the  rain  comes  in  quick 
pattering  big  drops,  and  then  the  garden  looks 
like  an  impressionist  landscape,  with  queer  look- 
ing spots  and  dabs.  Sometimes  it  comes  in  thin 
steady  streams,  and  then  my  landscape  changes 
into  a  pen  and  ink  sketch  with  fine  lines  across 
its  surface.  But  to-day  the  water  comes  down 
like  a  veil,  and  the  masses  of  foliage  take  on  the 
soft  grayish  green  look  of  a  Puvis  de  Chavannes 

13 


14        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

painting.  The  birds  are  sadly  drenched  and  all 
their  gayety  has  died  out.  Once  in  a  while  only 
can  I  hear  a  disconsolate  peep  from  them.  I 
have  flung  the  window  wide  open  and  let  the 
dampness  fill  my  room  until  the  atmosphere  feels 
like  a  sponge.  The  sound  of  the  rain  is  all  one 
can  hear,  and  it  seems  to  shut  out  the  world  of 
the  present  and  invite  one  to  vaporous,  misty 
musings. 

To-day,  when  human  voices  are  stilled  for  the 
moment,  inanimate  objects  become  lifelike  and 
this  old  house  begins  to  feel  and  to  live.  Its 
familiar  lines  become  more  human  and  it  looks 
strangely  like  a  friend.  To  the  world,  it  shows 
a  grave  and  serious  front.  The  severe  lines  of 
its  impassive  facade  have  been  turned  for  genera- 
tions toward  the  busy  street.  It  has  seen  men 
come  and  go;  it  has  watched  with  quiet  stoicism 
many  a  tragedy ;  it  has  heard  year  after  year  the 
shrill  cries  of  street  vendors  —  cries  that  remain 
the  same,  although  the  vendors  become  old  and 
pass  away.  Its  solemn  walls  seem  impenetrable, 
but  from  time  to  time  the  huge  green  doors  open 
with  a  slow  dignified  motion  and  you  almost 
expect  some  marvellous  revelation  to  come  forth ; 
but  it  is  only  the  baker  boy,  whistling  merrily, 


THE      GRAY     HOUSE  15 

with  his  empty  basket  balanced  nicely  on  his 
head,  or  a  white-capped  blanchisseuse  picking  her 
way  daintily  out  over  the  cobble  stones.  Some- 
times, to  be  sure,  the  doors  both  open  wider  than 
usual  and  a  carriage  drives  in;  then  they  close 
again,  and  the  gray  facade  looks  more  portentous 
than  ever,  more  severely  silent  and  inscrutable. 
It  must  have  grown  so  purely  out  of  self-defence ; 
otherwise  it  would  long  since  xhave  crumbled 
away  in  nervous  prostration  because  of  the 
waves  of  excitement,  bustling  activity,  and  un- 
ceasing noise  breaking  against  it  from  morning 
until  morning  again. 

This  is  the  side  it  shows  to  the  world,  but  there 
is  another  side,  turned  to  the  calm  and  peace  of 
tall  trees  whose  tops  only  are  moved  by  the  wind. 
On  this  side  are  big  generous  windows  that  open 
wide  their  whole  length  and  let  in  the  sunshine 
and  the  air,  the  sweet  dampness  of  a  rainy  day, 
or  the  perfect  glory  of  a  spring  morning  in 
France.  It  is  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  to  find 
all  this  eloquence  behind  the  dumb  gray  stone 
that  fronts  the  street,  that  one  feels  the  same 
delightful  sense  of  discovery  as  when  in  the  arid 
monotony  of  social  life  one  meets  suddenly  with 
the  freshness  of  a  spontaneous   and  unspoiled 


16        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

mind,  or  when  behind  a  cold  and  baffling  manner 
one  catches  a  glimpse  of  warmth  and  charm. 

It  is  this  contrast,  perhaps,  that  makes  my  gar- 
den seem  to  me  a  wonderful  and  precious  place, 
more  silent  and  cool  because  so  fearfully  near 
the  tumult  and  the  glare.  Some  day  you  may 
want  to  come  here ;  therefore  I  shall  tell  you  the 
way  that  leads  to  it.  You  must  first  find  a  long, 
narrow,  busy  street  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine. 
The  street  looks  much  narrower  than  it  really  is, 
for  the  little  shops  and  the  big  ones  are  so  eager 
to  display  their  goods  that  they  run  over  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  commerce,  and  spill  bargains 
all  over  the  sidewalk.  From  midnight  to  morn- 
ing the  street  is  wide  and  quiet,  but  about  seven 
o'clock  some  invisible  and  mischievous  genie 
seems  to  pass  along.  He  stops  at  every  shop  and 
pulls  a  string  which  brings  a  tangle  of  hetero- 
geneous articles  out  after  it  and  disposes  them 
all  along  the  way. 

Here  is  a  charcuterie  with  neat  little  pigs 
hanging  up  in  a  row,  each  bearing  a  proper 
little  bouquet  on  its  uncurled  and  lifeless  tail. 
Beneath  them  are  dishes  each  containing 
an  irreproachable  and  special  cut,  all  the 
way  from  the  vital  organs  of  a  chicken  to  the 


THE      GRAY     HOUSE  17 

nicely  rounded  gigot  of  a  luckless  sheep.  There 
is  an  ambitious  bazaar  whose  awnings  are  fes- 
tooned with  shoestrings,  ribbons,  neckties,  and 
lace;  where  dresses  and  suits  are  dangling,  and 
flaunting  their  commercial  value  in  the  face  of 
the  passing  public.  Next  door  is  the  shoe  store 
of  La  Vicrge  Marie,  where  the  poorest  as  well  as 
the  most  fastidious  may  be  shod.  The  proprietor 
of  this  place  is  an  eager,  red-headed  man  who 
darts  out  once  in  a  while,  takes  in  the  personnel 
of  those  passing:  then  suddenly  his  face  seems  to 
become  discomposed;  he  grows  rigid  and,  open- 
ing his  mouth,  cries  out  in  a  voice  so  piercing 
that  the  innocent  passer-by  stops  appalled  until 
he  grasps  the  meaning  of  the  cry.  This  is  simply 
an  appeal  to  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  taste  to 
observe  the  ridiculously  low  price  at  which  he  is 
selling  shoes  of  an  elegance  not  to  be  found  any- 
where else  in  Paris.  Having  delivered  his  mes- 
sage, he  immediately  resumes  his  former  peace- 
ful manner  and  retires  to  the  darkness  of  his 
interior,  there  to  meditate  over  new  devices  by 
which  he  may  decoy  the  public.  His  is  a  daring 
mind  which  hesitates  at  no  invention  if  thereby 
he  may  lure  some  shining  francs  from  reluctant 
hands.     One   device   to   which   he   resorts   with 


18         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

alarming  frequency  is  to  place  a  large  placard 
over  the  cheapest  pile  of  slippers,  on  which  is 
written :  "  On  account  of  a  recent  death  in  the 
firm  these  slippers  will  be  sold  at  the  risibly  low 
figure  of  two  francs  a  pair."  The  proprietor 
puts  this  sign  up  with  a  cheerful  smile  and  stands 
alertly  at  one  side  waiting  for  it  to  take.  I 
stopped  one  day  and  asked  him  what  fearful 
epidemic  was  carrying  off  the  firm,  for  it  was 
the  third  time  in  five  weeks  that  the  announce- 
ment of  death  had  appeared.  He  looked  at  me 
for  a  moment  gravely,  then  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye  said,  "Ah,  it  is  a  sad  world,  Madame,  but 
one  must  live.    What  would  you  ?  " 

Across  the  street  Madame  Genevieve,  a  trim- 
looking  little  woman,  has  installed  her  flower 
booth.  It  is  in  an  angle  of  the  wall  and  above 
there  is  the  stone  image  of  a  tortured  Christ  in 
a  niche  built  into  the  house  by  some  pious  pro- 
prietor of  long  ago.  The  longest  stemmed  flow- 
ers reach  to  the  agonized  limbs  and  caress  them 
with  a  pitying  touch.  Madame  Genevieve  is 
always  up  betimes  and  comes  back  from  the  mar- 
ket pushing  her  little  cart  before  her  loaded  with 
fresh  country  flowers,  sweet  white  lilacs,  buxom 
roses  and  forget-me-nots  with  their  gentle  in- 
sistent note  of  blue.     Soon  Madame  Genevieve 


THE      GRAY     HOUSE  19 

has  them  arranged  in  stiff  little  bunches  tied  very 
firmly,  with  quantities  of  cord.  Of  course,  if 
you  do  not  find  these  to  your  taste,  or  if  Madame 
prefers,  another  gerbe  can  be  made  up  for  her  on 
the  spot,  a  magnificent  bouquet,  which  will  last 
for  a  week,  but  of  course  Madame  understands 
that  it  will  be  more  expensive ;  but  then  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  Madame  will  not  object  to  that.  And 
you  leave  her  bearing  a  huge  bunch  for  which 
you  have  recklessly  paid  sixty  cents,  and  followed 
by  her  cheerful  good  wishes. 

Close  by  her  is  the  Bureau  de  tabac,  where  a 
black-eyed,  clear-voiced,  handsome  woman  dis- 
penses anaemic-looking  cigarettes,  dark  com- 
plexioned  cigars  and  highly  colored  liqueurs  to 
the  clerks  and  cabmen  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
an  occasional  stamp  to  a  hurried  purchaser ;  and 
with  each  sale  she  bandies  words  and  exchanges 
jokes  or  bits  of  gossip. 

Just  beyond  is  the  ornate  brown  front  of  an 
irreproachable  Etablissement  Duval,  where  you 
are  absolutely  certain  of  eating  exactly  the  same 
thing,  served  in  exactly  the  same  way,  as  in  hun- 
dreds of  kindred  establishments  all  over  Paris  — 
a  fact  that  should  appeal  to  all  well-organized 
minds. 

Between  the  shoe  shop  a  la  Vierge  Marie  and 


20        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

another  equally  enterprising  emporium  of  trade 
is  the  great  high  door  which  leads  into,  and  out 
from,  the  paved  court  in  front  of  the  gray  house 
with  the  garden.  When  we  enter  and  the  heavy 
doors  swing  close  on  their  hinges,  we  find  our- 
selves walking  limpingly  over  rounded  cobble 
stones  and  looking  at  the  uninviting  stable  at  one 
side  where  my  lord's  carriage  used  to  be  kept. 
A  rosy-cheeked  concierge  comes  to  our  rescue 
and  cries  out  to  us  from  her  low  window,  where 
little  pots  of  flowers  and  a  huge  black  cat  are 
basking  in  the  warmth, 

"  The  door  at  the  back  of  the  court,  second 
floor,  opposite." 

As  soon  as  the  real  meaning  of  this  enigmatic 
phrase  dawns  on  us  we  say,  "  Thank  you,"  and 
pick  our  way  over  the  tortuous  balls  of  stone. 
The  door  at  the  back  of  the  court  opens  into  a 
vestibule  guarded  by  two  solemn  palms  which 
nod  gently  to  us  as  we  pass.  The  winding  stair- 
way is  shining  with  wax,  and  softly  carpeted; 
the  railing  is  very  slender  and  the  walls  are  very 
old.  When  we  reach  the  door  at  the  back  of  the 
second  floor  opposite,  fair-haired  Alphonsine 
answers  the  ring  with  a  sunny  smile  and  in  a 
liquid  voice  begs  us  to  enter. 


THE     GRAY     HOUSE  21 

We  pass  through  a  large  antechamber  and 
enter  a  salon  with  three  generous  windows  whose 
doors  are  flung  wide  open,  and  through  the  win- 
dows comes  a  wonderful  melody  of  sound,  and 
from  them  we  can  see  a  wonderful  harmony  of 
color.  The  world  from  which  we  have  just 
come  suddenly  slips  away  from  us.  Not  a  cry 
from  the  street  is  heard,  no  noise  of  wheels  or 
cracking  whips,  no  hint  of  trade,  no  jargon  of 
voices;  only  the  concert  of  birds,  hundreds  of 
them,  who  are  joyously  piping  in  the  tall  trees,  a 
glad  audacious  wanton  flinging  of  their  whole 
being  into  this  welcome  to  spring. 

The  garden  is  big  and  full  of  splendid  tall  trees 
and  carpeted  with  velvety  grass,  and  surrounded 
by  solemn  convent  walls  which  can  only  be 
guessed  at  through  the  curtain  of  green.  Once 
in  a  while  the  big  black  cat  of  our  rosy  concierge 
prowls  about  with  stealthy  step,  sinister  audience 
at  the  concert  of  birds,  or  a  soft-robed  sister 
walks  gently  up  and  down  the  paths  with  bowed 
head  counting  her  beads,  not  seeing  the  glory 
about  her.  This  was  the  way  the  garden  looked 
to  me  the  first  time  I  saw  it,  and  I  turned  from 
the  salon  with  a  sigh  of  regret  when  Alphonsine 
said, 


22         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

"  Would  Mademoiselle  like  to  go  to  her  room 
before  Madame  returns  ?  " 

I  feared  to  leave  these  windows  lest  I  be  con- 
signed to  a  room  on  the  court,  where  cobble 
stones  would  be  the  only  bit  of  nature  I  should 
have  to  contemplate. 

So  I  followed  Alphonsine  reluctantly,  but  she 
went  across  the  salon  to  where  a  silk  embroid- 
ered drapery  hung  richly  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
floor.  Slipping  her  hand  behind  it  she  touched 
something  that  made  the  door  open,  and  passing 
through  a  thick  wall  and  another  door  we  found 
ourselves  in  my  room.  Oh  joy!  its  one  big  win- 
dow opened  into  the  same  garden:  and  so  gladly 
did  I  hurry  to  see  if  I  had  really  the  same  view 
that  I  failed  to  notice  the  wonderful  old  mahog- 
any, the  quaint  prints,  and  the  door  opening  into 
the  tiny  little  bedroom  beyond. 

And  each  day  when  I  come  in  from  the  life  of 
outside  I  experience  the  same  feeling  of  surprise, 
the  same  delicious  sense  of  intimacy.  I  know 
now  the  heart  of  the  old  house.  I  shall  never 
be  repelled  or  frightened  by  its  grim  street  aspect, 
for  I  know  what  is  hidden  from  the  casual  passer- 
by. And  when  I  see  the  anxious  eager  crowds 
in  the  cumbered  street,  when  I  hear  their  bar- 


THE      GRAY     HOUSE  23 

gaining  and  bickering,  I  hurry  past  them,  secretly- 
exulting,  for  there  is  something  awaiting  me  of 
which  they  know  nothing.  Perhaps  some  of 
them  may  have  little  hidden  gardens,  too,  and  I 
scan  the  faces  of  those  I  meet  to  see  if  I  can 
notice  any  traces  of  a  joyous  secret  like  mine. 
But  I  hurry  on,  for  I  am  eager  to  have  the  great 
green  doors  close  upon  me  and  shut  out  the 
others. 


II 

Visions 

/"T^HEY  do  penetrate  from  time  to  time  — 
-*-  the  others  —  but  chiefly  as  thought  phan- 
toms, and  they  take  on  a  gentler  aspect  and  a 
finer  grace  when  they  troop  silently  into  the 
rooms  with  the  windows  that  look  out  upon  the 
quiet  garden.  And  to-day  these  figures  become 
elusive  and  melt  into  the  soft  mist  of  the  rain,  for 
they  are  the  shadows  of  those  who  are  gone. 

The  Master's  tall  form  is  here  breathing  out 
the  same  joyous  benignity  that  used  to  put  the 
shyest  at  his  ease.  For  two  years  he  has  been 
lying  peacefully  on  the  sloping  hillside  in  the 
Normandy  he  loved  so  well,  but  his  presence  is 
still  here,  and  I  can  see  quite  plainly  his  hand- 
some head  with  its  silver  hair,  his  beautiful  brown 
eyes,  his  straight  sensitive  nose,  the  smiling 
mouth  forming  words  of  welcome.  And  I  can 
see  him  again  as  he  enters  his  lecture  room  in 
the  sudden  hush  of  respectful  attention.  Schol- 
ars and  students  from  many  lands  gathered  year 
after  year  to  hear  the  Master,  and  to  take  down 

24 


VISIONS  25 

with  anxious  precision  notes  of  the  fruits  of  his 
marvellous  scholarship. 

I  trust  they  have  not  all  forgotten,  as  have 
I,  the  different  branches  of  Le  Couronnement 
de  Louis  and  why  the  Charroi  de  Nimes  is  con- 
sidered a  sort  of  bridge  between  two  other  epics 
which  have  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  But 
I  feel  sure  that  if  they  have  forgotten  all  the 
variants  and  the  manuscripts  A,  B,  C,  and  D, 
they  still  remember  vividly  the  life  with  which 
he  animated  those  old  poems,  and  how  the 
heroes  of  a  by-gone  age  moved  again  under 
the  magic  touch  of  his  patriotic  eloquence. 
Charlemagne  and  Guillaume  and  Roland  were  no 
longer  dead.  We  were  thrilled  as  by  an  actual 
drama  when  the  Master  read  us  of  the  mighty 
Guillaume  returning  to  Orange  clad  in  Saracen 
armor,  how  the  old  porter,  taking  him  for  an 
enemy,  stubbornly  refused  him  entrance,  and  then 
how  Ghibour  in  all  her  womanly  loveliness  ap- 
peared, and  how  the  warrior  swore  a  great  oath 
that  never  should  he  rest  on  couch  or  soothe  his 
limbs  with  water  until  he  had  pressed  a  kiss  on 
Ghibour's  lips. 

When  he  told  the  beautiful  legend  of  Charle- 
magne beginning,  "  Quand  il  ctait  mort,  le  grand 


26         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

roi  aux  cheveaux  blancs,"  the  Master's  vibrant 
voice  gave  a  new  meaning  to  the  strong  old 
French  words.  We  saw  the  dead  king  carried, 
not  lying  prone  upon  a  bier,  but  sitting  proudly 
upright  on  a  golden  throne,  the  four  Evangelists 
at  his  feet.  And  thus  he  was  borne  to  his  own 
cathedral  at  Aix,  where  he  sits  unvanquished, 
waiting  again  to  take  up  arms  against  the  un- 
believer and  the  foes  of  his  dear  France. 

Ah  Master!  you  too  are  still  enthroned  within 
the  hearts  of  all  those  who  learned  from  you  a 
little  of  the  noble  passion  of  high  scholarship, 
and  your  clear  strong  spirit,  from  this  throne  of 
golden  memories,  is  still  battling  for  the  truth, 
and  for  the  France  you  loved  so  well. 

Then  comes  the  Critic's  face,  keen,  sharp-cut 
features,  eyes  that  peer  through  glasses,  a  neutral 
complexion,  a  nervous  quick  manner.  When  he 
spoke,  his  sentences  came  in  measured  elegant 
fashion,  in  strong  contrast  to  his  manner.  With 
what  pitiless  clearness  he  attacked  a  subject,  how 
cleanly  he  disposed  of  it  all,  neatly  done  up  in  its 
proper  parcel  and  labelled  ready  to  be  pigeon- 
holed. And  then  his  form  passes  on  into  the 
mist. 

The  Lecturer  follows  him,  and  I  see  a  bulky 


VISIONS  27 

outline,  a  large  fair  head  and  bearded  face.  He 
is  always  inseparable  from  his  audience;  and  so 
I  see  him,  as  he  steps  out  from  the  little  door 
near  the  platform,  silk  hat  in  one  hand,  leather 
serviette  under  his  arm.  He  acknowledges  the 
applause  from  the  crowded  amphitheatre  with 
a  slight  bow,  sits  down  behind  his  desk,  draws  off 
his  yellow  kid  gloves,  smooths  them  out  carefully, 
stirs  the  lump  of  sugar  in  his  glass,  opens  his 
serviette,  arranges  his  notes,  stirs  his  sugar  and 
water  again,  and  finally  begins,  "  Mesdames  et 
Messieurs  .  .  ."  His  elegant  sentences  flow 
unceasingly,  he  builds  up  a  perfect  structure,  in 
which  the  heavy  erudition  is  lightened  here  and 
there  by  a  sparkling  bit  of  wit,  a  satiric  remark, 
a  phrase  with  double  meaning,  given  with  the 
merest  lift  of  an  eyebrow  and  received  with  men- 
tal smacking  of  the  lips  by  the  attentive  audience. 
But  he,  too,  passes  into  the  mist,  and  others 
come  one  after  the  other  until  they  fill  the  gar- 
den with  their  shadows  and  the  mist  grows 
deeper  and  I  should  soon  become  helplessly 
melancholy  did  not  Lucien,  the  irreproachable 
butler,  come  in  to  say  that  dinner  would  be  served 
in  half  an  hour. 


Ill 

Realities 

QO  full  was  my  mind  of  visions  that  I  fear  the 
^  first  dinner  among  old  friends  would  have 
been  a  failure  had  not  Philippe  appeared,  and 
Philippe  always  brings  with  him  an  atmosphere 
of  joyousness.  He  is  very  tall.  He  tells  me  he 
is  nearly  two  meters  high,  but  that  means  nothing 
to  me.  I  know  that  he  is  over  six  feet  and  that 
he  carries  his  tall  frame  with  a  graceful  uncon- 
sciousness that  is  altogether  charming.  His  curl- 
ing brown  hair  is  very  abundant,  his  cheeks  look 
always  as  though  he  had  come  in  out  of  a  crisp 
wind,  and  his  brown  eyes  have  a  joyous  twinkle. 
When  dinner  is  announced  he  gallantly  offers 
his  arm  to  la  petite  grand'mere,  but  she  chides 
him  and  tells  him  his  duty  is  to  me.  So  we  walk 
out  with  much  gayety  and  sit  down  at  the 
candle-lit  table.  The  sweet  Hostess  is  ever  the 
presiding  genius,  but  it  is  grand'mere  who  is  very 
brilliant  to-night  and  her  well-turned  phrases, 
pointed  with  a  bit  of  irony  once  in  a  while,  serve 
as  a  sauce  piquante  for  every  course.    Her  sister, 

28 


REALITIES  29 

tante  Placide  sits  beside  her,  sweetly  benign  and 
gentle.  She  eats  her  soft-boiled  egg  and  her 
curdled  cream  with  resignation,  while  delectable 
viands  are  consumed  by  the  rest  of  us. 

Just  as  we  were  at  the  second  course  the  Patriot 
came  in.     Being  a  Pole,  he  cannot  help  being  a 
patriot  and  revolutionary,  and  so  he  never  comes 
just  at  the  appointed  or  expected  time.     But  this 
is  a  matter  of  such  entire  indifference  to  him 
whose  mind  is  so  full  of  great  things,  that  we 
are  ashamed  to  feel  annoyed  at  all  absence  of 
apology  from  him.     Quite  simply  he  takes  the 
place  hastily  prepared  for  him  and  in  a  perfectly 
matter  of  course  way  dominates  the  conversation. 
He  talks  about  himself.     One  is  usually  eloquent 
but  not  always  pleasing  when  on  this  subject,  but 
the  Patriot  has  a  detached  way  of  considering 
himself  as  an  instrument,  a  powerful  one  to  be 
sure,  that  divests  his  conversation  of  all  com- 
placency.    But  alas;  the  entire  absence  of  any 
visible  linen  about  his  person,  his  soft  shapeless 
clothes,  his  coarse  shoes,  the  incessant  stream  of 
his  conversation,  begin  to  have  an  effect  on  la 
petite  grand'mere.    His  insurrection  against  con- 
vention irrirates  her,  his  frank  speech  shocks  her, 
she  who  speaks  as  they  did  in  the  grand  salons 


30         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

of  the  last  century,  for  whom  conversation  is  an 
artistic  combination  of  words  and  graceful 
phrases  which  allow  one  to  divine  the  sense  be- 
neath, if  one  can  disentangle  oneself  from  the 
bewildering  beauty  of  the  lace-like  expression. 
No  matter  how  commonplace  the  subject,  grand' - 
mere  always  dresses  it  up,  giving  a  dainty  touch 
there,  a  bit  of  color  here ;  sometimes  maliciously 
knocking  the  hat  on  one  side  or  leaving  a  mirth- 
provoking  gap,  but  always  making  a  work  of  art 
of  the  poorest,  thinnest  sentiment. 

And  so,  the  Patriot's  directness  ruffles  her  and 
she  is  sometimes  guilty  of  cutting  him  off  quite 
shortly  by  suddenly  becoming  deeply  absorbed  in 
the  menu  and  addressing  a  remark  to  the  attentive 
butler,  which  completely  unhinges  the  conversa- 
tion for  the  moment.  But  the  Patriot  waits  and 
then  without  the  least  shade  of  annoyance,  —  I 
doubt  indeed  if  he  has  noticed  the  little  feminine 
device,  —  goes  on  imperturbably. 

Once,  in  the  course  of  his  monologue,  he  re- 
marked—  no,  not  remarked,  for  he  says  noth- 
ing without  a  certain  air  of  sincerity  and  gravity 
which  raises  everything  into  the  realm  of  asser- 
tions—  he  asserted  then,  that  he  was  very  fond 
of  his  daughters.     To  which  unusual  sentiment 


REALITIES  31 

grand'mere  made  one  of  her  charmingly  involved 
replies,  implying  that  it  was  a  feeling  one  was 
not  utterly  surprised  to  discover  in  a  father's 
breast.  The  Patriot  looked  at  her  a  while  with 
serious  eyes  and  said  in  his  grave  sweet  voice: 

"  But  I  disagree  with  you,  Madame ;  I  think  it 
is  most  surprising.  I  have  indeed  a  large  heart 
when  I  can  love  my  country  as  I  do,  and  hu- 
manity also,  and  yet  find  a  place  there  to  love 
my  three  daughters."  For  the  time  being  grand'- 
mere was  vanquished  and  retired  from  the  field 
scandalized,  but  in  good  order. 

And  through  it  all  tante  Placide  smiles  gently 
and  says  very  little  save  a  mild  mais,  ma  soeur! 
once  in  a  while  to  her  vivacious  elder  sister.  But 
though  she  says  nothing  now,  nor  much  more 
through  the  evening,  which  is  punctuated  by  fra- 
grant black  coffee,  bridge,  and  the  ten  o'clock  tea, 
her  gentle  presence  is  more  impressive  than  the 
vivacity  of  the  rest.  Her  delicate  skin  flushes 
to  the  softest  pink,  her  fine-cut  high  bred  features 
look  like  an  old  miniature  and  her  lovely  white 
hair  wooes  one  to  love  winter. 

Philippe  comes  beside  me  and  talks  to  me  in 
low  eager  tones  of  his  ambitions.  He  is  now 
reading  law,  but  he  is  not  at  all  sure  that  he 


32         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

wishes  to  make  this  his  career.  His  music  is 
dear  to  him,  but  there  are  so  many  people  with 
talent !  He  would  like,  most  of  all,  some  employ- 
ment, light,  and  not  too  exacting,  which  would 
assure  him  respectability  and  a  living,  and  which 
would  permit  him  to  devote  most  of  his  time  to 
writing,  for  he  thinks,  bless  his  dear  enthusiastic 
soul,  that  he  has  a  message  to  deliver  to  the 
world,  a  message  on  Pascal  and  other  worthies 
of  Port  Royal!  He  thinks  he  has  discovered 
something  that  has  not  yet  been  said,  and  his 
eyes  shine  with  the  same  fire  as  light  up  those  of 
his  transatlantic  brother  when  he  talks  of  hunting 
big  game,  or  of  a  fortunate  deal  in  stocks.  And  I 
look  at  Philippe's  splendid  athletic  frame  and  his 
handsome  face  and  wonder  if  it  is  education  and 
environment  alone  which  make  him  so  different. 

When  the  good  nights  have  been  said  and  the 
guests  are  gone  we  sit  for  a  while  in  the  soft 
lamplight  and  talk  of  those  who  will  never  meet 
with  us  again.  There  are,  alas,  so  many!  But 
as  we  talk  our  hearts  begin  to  glow  with  a 
warmth  that  comes  from  that  land  where  our 
loved  ones  are,  and  as  we  leave  each  other  the 
yearning  and  the  heartache  are  soothed. 

In  the  starlit  beauty  of  the  quiet  night  my  gar- 


REALITIES  33 

den  is  unique,  sufficient.  As  I  sit  and  dream  at 
my  window  the  shadow  people  come  once  more 
and  I  hear  again  the  faint  echo  of  a  bird's  song. 

I  sat  within  the  quiet  garden  of  my  soul, 
With    body    weak    and    heart    that    beat 
afraid, 
Still  trembling  from  the  dread  defeat  that 
shut  me  from  the  world, 
And  groping  for  a  pallid  hope  that  fled 
dismayed. 

A  fear  fell  on  me  and  an  awful  dread. 

I  lifted  longing  arms  for  those  without. 
I  yearned  to  gaze  into  clear  shallows  of  a 
human  love. 
I  prayed  to  feel  again  the  passion  and  the 
doubt. 

Then  from  the  coolness  and  the  silence  of 

the  place, 
A  wondrous  calm  and  sweetness  o'er  me 

stole, 
A    truth    triumphant    thrilled    my    fainting 

heart  with  sudden  life; 
"  Within   thyself    thou   hast    wherewith   to 

reach  the  goal." 


34        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

I  rose  upright  within  the  garden  of  my  soul. 

Its    heavy    doors    shut    out    the    careless 

throng. 

Its  winding  paths  were  peopled  with  soft 

shadows  of  my  thoughts. 

Its  leafy  arches  echoed  my  unspoken  song. 

And  the  garden  is  unique,  sufficient. 


IV 

Action 

TT  FARMER  days  have  come  and  my  garden 
*  is  more  of  a  joy  than  ever.  Yesterday 
morning,  very  early,  a  gardener  appeared.  He 
was  here  before  the  stars  had  quite  faded  from 
the  sky  and  as  the  slow  dawn  came,  it  seemed,  at 
first,  in  the  cool  dimness,  that  they  had  slipped 
from  their  places  and  fallen  softly  down  into  my 
garden,  for  here  and  there  were  faint  gleams  and 
spots.  When  the  light  grew  stronger  I  saw  that 
I  was  mistaken  and  that  what  had  seemed  fallen 
stars  were  white  tulips.  When  the  gardener  was 
quite  through  I  saw  that  he  had  also  planted 
quantities  of  blue  forget-me-nots,  pink  geraniums 
and   other   bright-colored   flowers,    so   that   the 

35 


36         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

green  of  grass,  bushes,  and  trees  was  dashed  with 
brilliant  color.  To  the  songs  of  birds  is  now 
added  the  hum  of  insects  and  every  day  the 
orchestra  gains  in  power  and  expression.  There 
is  a  constant  humming  and  twittering  which  fur- 
nishes the  musical  background  and  every  now 
and  then  the  clear  soaring  note  of  a  merle  arises 
in  a  glorious  solo.  I  have  looked,  in  vain,  among 
the  branches  for  this  singer.  His  voice  is  so 
piercingly  sweet  and  it  rises  and  falls  with  such 
artistic  cadences,  now  mingling  in  the  general 
chorus,  now  exulting  high  above  it,  that  I  am 
sure  he  is  a  wonderful  virtuoso.  But  no  matter 
how  wild  the  melody,  there  is  one  ever-recurrent 
air,  a  minor  strain  that  haunts  one  long  after- 
wards. Other  notes  ring  out  from  other  throats 
like  flashes  of  color.  So  the  garden  with  its 
mass  of  green  and  with  its  glints  of  bright  flow- 
ers forms  with  the  music  a  perfect  symphony  of 
color  and  sound. 

There  is  something  in  the  morning,  in  the 
freshness  of  the  spring  air  that  impels  one  to 
work  and  to  activity.  Even  into  the  calm  of  the 
garden  have  come  the  flutterings  of  new  life.  Is 
it  because  the  convent  walls  are  not  thick  enough 
to  shut  out  the  restless  energy  of  the  streets,  or 
is  it  the  heart  of  my  garden  itself  that  feels  the 


ACTION  37 

stirring  of  youth,  the  renewing  of  life,  the  yearn- 
ing for  action?  Whatever  it  may  be,  some  in- 
fluence detaches  itself  from  the  garden  and  the 
city  outside  calls  with  an  insistence  that  cannot 
be  unheeded.  It  is  the  call  to  work,  to  joy,  to 
anything:  provided  one  may  have  the  glad  sense 
of  movement.  And  so,  I  turn  away  and  go  down 
the  winding  stairs,  across  the  paved  court,  smile 
half  apologetically  to  the  rosy-cheeked  concierge, 
open  the  great  green  doors  and  as  they  swing 
back,  and  shut  me  out  on  the  street,  palpitating 
with  life,  I  hesitate  a  moment  then,  exultingly, 
become  one  of  the  multitude. 

Shall  it  be  work  or  glad  abandonment  to  pleas- 
ure? The  quaint  narrow  Rue  des  Saints  Peres 
beckons  me  toward  the  river,  a  street  so  narrow 
that  it  seems  impossible  for  two  cabs  to  pass  each 
other,  much  less  two  monstrous  autobus  (or  is 
the  plural  autobi?)  that  loom  up  gigantic  in  their 
two-storied  height.  If  I  go  that  way  I  shall  soon 
reach  the  Seine  and  then  I  shall  cross  over  on 
the  Pont  Royal,  stopping  for  a  moment  to  look 
up  the  river  at  the  twin  towers  of  Notre  Dame 
and  the  tall  splendid  spire  of  La  Sainte  Chapelle. 
They  are  beautiful  in  rain  or  fog,  in  sunshine  or 
in  the  gray  twilight  of  evening.  Then  I  shall  go 
on  my  inevitable  way  to  the  old  palace  of  that 


38        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

great  Cardinal  who  moulded  kings  and  made 
them  do  his  pleasure.  He  was  a  ruler  of  kings, 
but  his  unsatisfied  ambition  was  always  to  be  a 
maker  of  books.  It  is  fitting,  then,  that  Riche- 
lieu's great  palace  now  holds  more  books  than 
it  is  possible  to  count,  and  that,  day  after  day, 
would-be  makers  of  books  sit  beneath  the  great 
ornate  dome  of  the  National  Library,  where  his 
marble  statue  looks  down  upon  them  with  a 
pleased  smile,  tinged  with  a  bit  of  envy. 

But  the  day  is  too  full  of  sparkle  for  one  wil- 
fully to  shut  oneself  away  from  the  brightness, 
and  if  the  sunshine  is  so  glorious  here,  what  must 
it  be  out  beyond  the  city  fortifications  ?  Obeying  a 
sudden  impulse,  I  hail  a  cabman  with  the  sibilant 
impelling  call  of  psst!  which  goes  much  further 
and  reaches  much  duller  ears  than  could  our 
hearty  open  "  hey  there!  "  He  stops,  adjusts  his 
taximeter  and  off  we  go  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  for 
a  vision  of  Fontainebleau  suddenly  projected 
upon  my  wavering  mind  has  brought  me  to  a 
quick  decision. 

The  introduction  of  taximeters  on  the  cabs  has 
robbed  me  of  all  joy  in  driving.  I  can  no  longer 
see  anything  but  that  inexorable  warming  pan 
staring  me  in  the  face.  I  wait  with  an  anxiety 
which  becomes  anguish  for  the  warming  pan  to 


ACTION  39 

click  and  with  an  evil  wink  slip  another  figure 
into  place.  The  first  figure  indicating  75  centimes 
lasts  a  satisfactory  length  of  time,  but  it  is  simply 
awful  to  witness  the  vulgar  haste  with  which  95 
follows  fast  on  the  heels  of  85.  The  deepest 
agony,  however,  is  at  the  last.  You  feel  that 
you  will  safely  arrive  with  the  indicator  pointing 
to  one  franc  fifteen  centimes.  You  get  out  your 
purse,  select  the  proper  coin,  decide  upon  an  ade- 
quate pour  boire  and  then,  just  as  you  stop,  the 
wretched  warming  pan  gives  one  more  wicked 
click  and  you  find  yourself  financially  responsible 
for  two  cents  more.  The  taximeter  may  be  a 
great  convenience,  but  I  consider  it  utterly  de- 
moralizing and  its  baleful  psychological  influence 
will  doubtless  be  realized  when  we  see  the  parsi- 
mony of  the  next  generation. 

The  fat  old  cabman  whips  his  thin  horse 
mechanically  and  at  perfectly  regular  intervals, 
all  of  which  seems  to  accelerate  his  speed  not  at 
all,  but  nevertheless  we  arrive  fifteen  minutes 
before  train  time.  It  is  well,  for  a  large  delega- 
tion of  prosperous-looking  Britons  are  going  by 
the  same  train.  The  compartments  all  seem  to 
be  full,  at  least  each  door  is  guarded  by  a  rather 
belligerent  looking  person  whom  I  dare  not  brave. 
As  I  walk  along  the  aisle  I  reach  one  compart- 


40        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ment  where  a  benevolent  old  gentleman  is  stand- 
ing. To  my  inquiry  he  replies  in  very  bad 
French,  but  with  a  kindly  accent,  "  Oui,  oui,  deux 
places  ici.'J  I  step  in,  although  why  he  should 
think  I  need  two  places  is  a  question  I  prefer  to 
leave  unanswered.  As  I  move  in,  a  very  stout 
lady,  apparently  the  only  occupant  of  the  six 
seats,  and  evidently  the  benevolent  party's  wife, 
leans  forward  anxiously,  and  in  a  voice  that 
makes  her  fringe  vibrate  says,  "  Occupe,  occupe." 
Not  wishing  to  make  further  trouble  in  what 
seems  to  be  an  already  divided  family,  at  least  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  retire  and  pass  on.  I 
find  shelter  in  another  compartment  where  the 
occupants  seem  to  be  less  conservative.  There 
are  four  persons,  each  installed  in  a  corner,  leav- 
ing the  uncomfortable  middle  seats  for  late 
comers.  They  talk  freely  and  easily  across  to 
each  other,  so  this  arrangement  has  its  advan- 
tages, for  their  fellow  travellers,  who  can  thus 
cull  precious  bits  of  conversation.  These  four  are 
evidently  husbands  and  wives,  the  men  broad- 
shouldered  and  good-looking,  the  women  excess- 
ively plain  and  dressed  in  curious  costumes  that 
seem  to  be  composed  of  after  thoughts.  One  of 
them  wears  a  thin,  flimsy  China  silk  bodice,  very 
much  trimmed  with  quantities  of  cheap  lace,  the 


ACTION  41 

wide  spacing  of  whose  buttons  and  buttonholes 
testifies  as  to  its  ready-made  origin ;  a  very  heavy 
skirt  of  coarse  blue  serge  which  shows  a  stub- 
born reluctance  to  join  its  existence  with  that  of 
the  frivolous-looking  waist,  leaving,  as  a  conse- 
quence, a  yawning  gap  between  them,  which  the 
shining  belt  very  stiffly  refuses  to  span.  Add 
to  this,  tan  shoes  at  one  extremity,  and  at  the 
other  a  large  mushroom  hat  of  dark  red  straw 
trimmed  with  cherries  and  an  immense  bow  of 
red  ribbon  of  a  tint  skilfully  selected  so  as  just 
not  to  harmonize  with  the  rest  of  the  structure. 
The  other  lady  is  a  discord  in  blue,  whose  dis- 
tinguishing article  of  apparel  is  a  checked  flannel 
bodice  liberally  trimmed  with  diaphanous  net- 
ting. 

However,  let  us  not  trust  to  appearances. 
They  are  doubtless  cultured  people,  although  I 
hear  snatches  of  conversation  which  do  not  lead 
unavoidably  to  this  conclusion ;  but  even  conver- 
sation should  not  condemn  a  man.  One  husband 
who  is  deep  in  a  local  English  newspaper  sud- 
denly exclaims :  "  I  say,  Hawarden  is  dead." 
His  wife  looks  up  and  with  admirably  controlled 
emotion  says :  "  Oh  really !  what  a  pity.  He 
used  to  jump  over  the  table  without  touching  a 
dish." 


42        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Eloquent  epitaph  this.  I  do  not  know  whether 
this  was  an  ordinary  prandial  feat,  whether 
Hawarden  did  this  at  home,  at  every  meal,  or 
whether  he  reserved  it  for  his  guests.  But  the 
brief  words  spoke  volumes  and  presented  poor 
Hawarden  to  me  as  no  funeral  oration  could 
have  done.  I  saw  him,  genial,  kindly,  agile,  ready 
to  sacrifice  himself  for  his  family,  for  his  friends, 
performing  faithfully  this  little  duty,  never 
weary,  never  breaking  down.  And  each  time  he 
tried  it  Mrs.  Hawarden,  in  true  wifely  wise, 
would  protest,  implore,  even  scold.  "  Morti- 
mer " ;  his  name  must  have  been  Mortimer ; 
"  Mortimer,  dear,  I  must  beg  of  you  for  the  sake 
of  the  children,  if  not  for  your  own  sake,  to 
desist  from  this."  And  the  children  would  howl 
with  delight  and  Hawarden,  poor  dead  Hawar- 
den, would  fix  his  hands  firmly  on  the  table  be- 
tween the  gravy  boat  and  the  boiled  potatoes  and, 
rising  lightly,  would  leap  over  the  boiled  mutton 
and  come  down  surely  and  firmly  on  the  other 
side.  Sometimes  perhaps  .  .  .  — but  no,  I 
shall  not  malign  the  dead  hero  by  any  base  sup- 
positions. Let  us  leave  him  with  this  simple 
inscription  uttered  by  a  friend,  in  a  foreign  land, 
and  falling  upon  sympathetic  ears. 


V 

The  Heart  of  the  City 

'  I AHUS  pleasantly  dreaming  of  unknown 
■*"  heroes,  the  time  passes  rapidly,  and  Fon- 
tainebleau  is  reached.  I  soon  find  two  good 
friends  and  together  we  drive  all  morning  over 
the  grandes  routes  and  the  green  aisles  of  the  old 
forest.  Sometimes  we  wander  down  by-paths 
into  harmless  gorges  with  fearful  names,  where 
the  rocks  are  green  with  moss  and  the  trees  shut 
out  the  yellow  light,  letting  in  a  soft  cool  green 
glimmer.  And  shall  we  ever  forget  the  little 
village  of  Marlotte,  full  of  blessed  artist  memo- 
ries, but  disfigured  as  are  so  many  French  vil- 
lages now,  by  the  hideous  villas  springing  up 
impertinently  and  flaunting  their  gaudy  colors 
and  graceless  architecture  in  the  face  of  monu- 
ments which  have  become  classic? 

We  drive  through  winding  narrow  streets  to 
the  principal  hotel  of  the  village.  Immediately 
we  feel  that  we  are  in  the  domain  of  an  original 
genius.  The  proprietor  of  the  hostelry  is  evi- 
dently a  pushing  man  possessed  of  commercial 

43 


44         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

instincts  which  clothe,  rather  fantastically,  an 
artistic  soul.  The  place  runs  to  blue;  all  the 
balconies  and  windows  are  painted  a  vivid  blue, 
and  the  personality  of  the  owner  breaks  out  at 
unexpected  intervals  in  great  blue  letters  Paul 
M allot,  Ptr. 

As  we  descend  from  the  carriage,  a  fat  waiter 
with  a  dirty  white  apron  fitting  smoothly  over  his 
rotund  form  advances  and  demands  if  Monsieur 
and  Mesdames  will  not  enter  the  garden.  We 
assent  and  are  conducted  through  the  paved 
court,  on  beyond  into  an  azure  landscape  where 
there  are  so  many  and  so  varied  features  that  we 
are  dazed,  and  fail  to  receive  any  general  impres- 
sion except  that  of  color.  The  atmosphere  seems 
to  have  suddenly  become  blue;  the  fagade  had 
been  but  the  merest  hint  of  the  cerulean  depths 
into  which  we  now  are  plunged.  The  little  iron 
tables  and  chairs  are  a  vivid  blue.  There  are 
gas  fixtures  painted  blue,  attached  to  pillars 
painted  blue.  The  trees  seem  to  have  been 
struck  with  blue  lightning,  for  there  is  a  sinuous 
blue  line  winding  around  the  trunk  of  each,  ter- 
minating in  an  electric  button.  The  china  is 
blue.  Near  one  of  the  blue  tables  is  a  sad  look- 
ing monkey,  tugging  at  his  chain,  and  he  seems 


46        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

blue,  too.  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  is  a  huge 
blue  canvas  umbrella  which  concentrates  the  color 
into  a  blueness  of  indigo.  As  a  relief  from  this 
we  note  that  there  are,  encircling  the  garden,  a 
number  of  little  kiosks  evidently  designed  for  the 
customers  of  exclusive  taste,  and  whose  thatched 
roofs  pleasantly  suggest  the  unconventionality  of 
Hottentot  society.  We  also  notice  that  our  host 
is  something  of  an  epicure  who  doubtless  inherits 
his  taste  for  luxury  from  some  old  Roman  sybar- 
ite ancestor,  for,  opening  out  into  the  garden  in  a 
most  conspicious  spot  is  a  modern  bath  room  still 
shining  in  all  the  whiteness  of  new  porcelain.  The 
door  is  left  open  with  an  air  of  easy  careless  os- 
tentation befitting  the  proprietor  of  the  only  like 
luxury  in  the  village.  It  is  doubtless  a  great  at- 
traction, only,  the  question  will  obtrude  itself  on 
a  practical  mind,  who  uses  it,  and  when?  Per- 
haps it  is  too  sacred  to  be  used,  perhaps  it  is  a 
monument  erected  in  bitter  jest  to  some  famous 
artist  habitue  of  the  place.  We  shall  probably 
never  know. 

We  order  lemonade  to  be  made  with  lemons 
and  our  fat  waiter,  proud  of  the  resources  of  the 
house,  brings  us  some  shrivelled  fruit  and  pre- 
pares the  drink  before  our  eyes,  conversing  amia- 


THE     CITY  47 

bly  the  while  of  his  little  world:  how  business 
fell  off  lamentably  at  Pentecost  because  of  the 
cold ;  how,  despite  continued  rains  the  patron  had 
nevertheless  prospered  sufficiently  to  buy  a  pretty 
bit  of  ground  adjoining,  which  made  a  belle 
promenade ;  and  would  we  not  take  a  glimpse  of 
it  before  we  left? 

We  drove  slowly  back  through  the  forest,  our 
horses  moving  with  measured  dignity,  so  that  we 
could  see  every  passing  glade,  every  green  aisle, 
and  every  majestic  tree.  We  felt  unutterable 
scorn  for  the  automobiles  that  dashed  past,  from 
time  to  time,  like  maddened  buzzing  insects  try- 
ing to  pass  through  a  window  pane.  What  could 
their  occupants  see  of  all  this  beauty  ? 

My  train  hurried  me  back  to  the  city  through 
the  forests  and  the  well-kept  fields,  past  trim  little 
villages,  which  in  France,  never  seem  to  have  any 
back  yards,  and  where  you  can  never  come  early 
enough  to  surprise  them  in  curl  papers  or  in  des- 
habille. As  we  neared  the  city  we  swept  by  mar- 
ket gardens  set  with  such  geometrical  precision 
that  they  looked  like  huge  colored  kindergarten 
mats,  where  men  and  women  were  using  the  last 
precious  hours  of  daylight  in  bending  over  the 
plants  with  anxious  care. 


48         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Often  when  we  have  been  away  for  a  few 
hours  from  a  temporary  home  we  feel  upon  our 
return  to  it  a  warm  glow  of  affection,  a  reflec- 
tion of  that  deeper  emotion  we  have  when  we 
go  back  to  our  real  home.  Something  of  this  I 
felt  when  our  screaming  little  locomotive  steamed 
noisily  into  the  station.  Before  the  train  stopped, 
compartment  doors  opened  and  eager  home-goers 
were  standing  ready  to  step  out  as  soon  as  the 
wheels  would  stop  turning.  Then  came  the  rush 
for  the  exits,  the  cries  of  porters,  the  happy 
laughter  of  meeting  friends,  and  then  the  quick 
dispersion  in  a  hundred  different  directions  of 
those  whom  the  accident  of  travel  had  housed 
together  for  a  few  brief  hours. 

I  hailed  a  cab  and  while  waiting  for  it  to  drive 
up  across  the  cobble-stoned  place  to  the  curb,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  group  of  travellers 
who  had  evidently  just  arrived  by  one  of  the 
grandes  lignes.  They  were  discussing,  in  the 
unamiable  way  characteristic  of  tired  tourists,  the 
best  place  to  go  for  the  night  and  there  seemed 
to  be  as  many  minds  as  persons.  Their  faces 
wore  an  expression  of  fretful  uncertainty  and, 
had  not  a  man  from  Cook's  appeared  to  them  at 
the  same  time  that  my  cabby  drew  up  before  me, 


THE      CITY  49 

I  should  have  ventured  to  help  them  with  my 
small  stock  of  experience.  As  it  was,  I  had  a 
sense  of  warm  comfort  as  I  gave  my  number  to 
the  driver  and  a  picture  of  what  the  number 
meant  to  me  banished  unpleasant  images  of  hos- 
telries  with  their  restless  occupants.  Others 
might  go  to  the  gay  hotels  of  the  boulevards  or 
the  fashionable  pensions  of  the  avenues  where 
they  could  see  the  gayety  and  feel  the  brilliancy 
of  the  surface  of  this  gayest  and  most  brilliant  of 
cities,  but  I  was  going  to  the  very  heart  of  Paris, 
to  the  House  of  the  Garden,  where  in  the  quiet, 
behind  protecting  walls,  was  hidden  the  real  life 
of  the  great  city. 

As  we  rattled  along  over  the  paved  streets  I 
found  myself  guessing  how  many  of  the  houses 
we  passed  hid  behind  their  monotonous  fronts 
some  bit  of  greenness,  some  cool  place  where  trees 
grew  tall  and  where  the  grass  was  not  whitened 
by  the  dust  of  the  streets.  And  I  thought  that 
unless  one  knew  just  such  a  place,  one  had  not 
entered  into  an  understanding  of  the  real  mind 
of  the  most  polished  and  yet  most  simple  of 
people. 


Tante  Placide 

T\  yf  Y  reflections  came  to  an  end  with  a  jolt,  for 
•*-  A  we  had  arrived  at  the  green  doors  that 
shut  out  the  deepening  darkness.  While  going 
up  the  stairs  I  heard  voices  coming  down  to  me, 
sounds  of  laughter  and  gayety.  The  doors  had 
been  thrown  open  to  let  in  the  warm  spring  air 
and  the  family  were  all  assembled  at  the  table. 
When  I  entered  the  dining  room  with  apologies 
for  my  lateness  on  my  lips,  I  was  met  with  a 
chorus  of  greetings.  The  Patriot  was  there  and 
he  rose  gallantly  to  help  me  to  my  place.  La 
petite  grand'mere  insisted  that  I  should  tell  my 
adventures;  Germaine  wanted  to  know  if  I  had 
gone  into  the  caves,  and  the  gentle  Hostess  won- 
dered if  I  were  not  very  tired.     They  all  said  they 

50 


TANTE     PLACIDE  51 

were  glad  I  had  come  back  in  time  to  get  some 
vol-au-vent,  for  they  did  not  often  indulge  in  this 
bourgeois  delicacy.  When  I  told  about  the 
English  people  on  the  train  the  Patriot  listened 
with  serious  courtesy  and  when  I  finished,  made 
some  profound  observations  on  the  subject  of 
British  characteristics,  implying  that  my  ideas  of 
Mortimer's  lightness  were  in  opposition  to  all 
well-known  English  traits.  He  cited  at  length 
some  of  his  own  experiences  which  proved  con- 
clusively that  no  Englishman  would  be  capable 
of  performing  any  such  feats  as  my  fertile  and 
now  discredited  imagination  ascribed  to  the  late 
Mr.  Hawarden. 

The  Patriot  is  very  serious.  I  suppose  he  has 
to  be  when  he  has  an  enslaved  country  constantly 
on  his  mind.  It  must  be  a  very  heavy  responsi- 
bility, especially  as  the  work  of  liberation  and 
regeneration  is  apparently  to  be  largely  brought 
about  by  his  efforts. 

When  dinner  was  over  he  begged  to  be  ex- 
cused as  he  was  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  Polish 
freedom  before  a  Catholic  school.  The  rest  of 
us  went  into  a  salon  which  to-night  was  to  be 
the  scene  of  busy  activity  for  we  were  all  to 
knit  woollen  petticoats  for  the  villagers  near  the 
chateau.    The  gentle  Hostess  and  la  petite  grand'- 


52        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

mere  take  great  pride  in  making  up  the  wool  from 
their  own  flocks  into  warm  winter  clothes  for  the 
very  old  and  the  very  young.  So,  through  the 
winter  evenings,  they  weave  into  their  work 
memories  of  the  golden  summer  time,  of  the 
chateau  with  its  flower-filled  moat,  of  the  sturdy 
village  folk,  and  of  the  green  hills  and  valleys  of 
Normandy. 

Germaine  begged  that  la  petite  grand'mere 
would  read  aloud  while  our  busy  needles  clicked 
and  we  elected  "  Pickwick  Papers,"  in  French  of 
course  La  petite  grand'mere  reads  with  won- 
derful dramatic  expression  as  she  sits  upright  in 
her  straight-backed  arm  chair.  To  me  there  is 
peculiar  humor  in  the  thought  of  the  irrepressible 
Samuel  expressing  himself  in  the  elegant  gallic 
tongue  while  Mr.  Pickwick's  solid  phrases  assume 
a  sudden  distinction  which  would  have  delighted 
the  soul  of  a  gentleman  of  his  keen  sensibilities. 
Germaine  thinks  that  Samuel's  wonderful  similes 
are  the  cream  of  wit  and  laughs  so  hard  that  she 
has  to  stop  her  knitting.  Tante  Placide  smiles 
benignly  but  her  expression  denotes  a  lack  of 
sympathetic  comprehension  of  these  very  eccen- 
tric persons,  who  are  forever  getting  into  painful 
situations. 

After  a  while  Alphonsine  comes  to  announce 


TANTE     PL  AC  IDE  53 

that  it  is  time  for  Mademoiselle  Germaine  to  re- 
tire and  after  reluctant  goodnights  have  been  said 
la  petite  grand'mere  and  tante  Placide  fall  to 
discussing  feminine  nature,  apropos  of  a  care- 
burdened  relative.  I  have  become  so  absorbed 
in  the  intricacies  of  a  new  stitch  which  the  gentle 
Hostess  is  teaching  me  that  I  hear  nothing  until 
a  clear-cut  phrase  from  la  petite  grand'mere 
arrests  my  attention.     She  is  saying, 

"  But  my  dear  sister,  all  women  are  Eves  and 
all  of  us,  however  much  we  may  protest,  would 
have  eaten  the  apple,  and  for  various  reasons. 
Some,  because  we  are  greedy;  some,  because  we 
are  ambitious;  some,  because  we  are  merely 
curious ;  some,  because  we  are  reckless ;  some,  be- 
cause we  are  thoughtless;  and  some  because  we 
want  to  have  something  to  worry  about  after- 
wards." 

Pretty  tante  Placide  listened  with  silent  admira- 
tion to  her  clever  sister,  but  shook  her  head  gently 
and  protestingly  to  signify  that  she  had  her  own 
opinion  about  Eve  and  the  apple.  Tante  Placide 
has  no  mind  for  discussions.  She  is  the  kind  of 
woman  whom  men  adore  and  other  women  love. 
The  other  day,  when  we  celebrated  her  fete  she 
had  letters  and  visits  from  hosts  of  friends.  She 
receives  homage  with  a  sweet  air  of  youthful 


54        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

surprise  and  pleasure  as  though  she  were  experi- 
encing the  sensation  for  the  first  time.  She  is 
possessed  of  a  certain  spring-like  charm  that 
never  developed  into  the  warm  sensuous  summer, 
nor  can  autumn's  frost  or  winter's  cold  ever 
wither  it.  One  of  her  ardent  admirers,  an  elderly 
Englishman  who  crosses  the  Channel  so  often 
that  he  is  sometimes  uncertain  on  which  side  he 
is,  sent  her  a  poem  on  her  fete  which  pleased  her 
infinitely.  I  notice  that  she  keeps  it  in  her  work 
basket  and  to-night  I  ask  her  if  I  might  not  re- 
read it  to  her.  It  is  written  in  English  and  I 
craftily  suggest  that  she  ought  to  hear  me  read 
it  aloud  for  the  sake  of  cultivating  her  pronuncia- 
tion.    It  is  addressed  thus: 

Lines  to  the  Countess  Placide  on  Her  Best 

Birthday 
(With  apologies  to  Austin  Dobson) 

Her  fine  benignant  face 

Old  Time  has  touched  with  tender  grace, 

Just  leaving  there  a  lingering  trace 

Of  joy  and  sorrow. 
The  secret  of  that  winsome  smile, 
Which  from  some  god  she  did  beguile, 

We  fain  would  borrow. 


TANTE     PL  AC  ID  E  55 

The  winters  of  the  years, 

Have  never  chilled  her  heart  with  fears; 

And  of  their  passage  naught  appears, 

Save  snow  white  tresses: 
For  summer  lingers  in  her  heart, 
And  hides  her  years  with  such  an  art 

That  no  one  guesses. 

She  has  a  charm  that  grows, 

And  from  her  lovely  presence  flows, 

The  holy  peace  and  calm  repose 

Of  gentle  leisure. 
Oh  teach  us  then  the  sinless  crime 
Of  how  we,  too,  may  cheat  old  Time 

Of  his  one  pleasure! 

As  I  read,  carefully  enunciating  my  words,  a 
far  away  look  came  into  tante  Placide's  eyes  and 
I  wonder  if  the  secret  is  buried  in  her  heart,  to- 
gether with  the  memory  of  the  brave  young 
Count  whose  life  was  sacrificed  with  so  many 
others  in  the  fearful  blunder  of  Sedan.  Perhaps 
she  is  keeping  young  for  him. 

After  the  good-nights  have  been  said  and  I 
have  gone  to  my  room,  I  fling  wide  open  the  win- 
dows which  Alphonsine  has  carefully  closed  lest  a 
deadly  courant  d'air  might  harm  me.     The  per- 


56         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

fume  of  sleepy  flowers,  wet  with  the  night  dews, 
rises  in  the  air,  a  bird  stirs  uneasily,  and,  as  I 
look  up  into  the  starry  sky,  I  wonder  idly  if  the 
Count  was  tall  and  strong  and  handsome,  like 
Philippe,  fur  instance. 


Mt 


VII 

The  Vanity  of  Learning 

THE  morning  was  very  still  and  the  notes  of 
the  merle  sounded  more  clearly  than  usual. 
He  woke  me  at  a  very  early  hour  and  I  resented  it 
until  I  looked  from  my  window  and  saw  what 
he  saw.  No  wonder  he  wanted  to  arouse  all 
sluggards,  for  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen  high 
enough  to  peep  over  the  convent  walls  on  the 
other  side,  and  while  the  sky  was  a  brilliant  hot 
blue  the  garden  still  lay  like  a  cool,  dark  green 
pool,  encircled  by  gray  hills.  Everything  pro- 
claimed a  hot  day  and  I  hastened  to  dress  and 
go  down  into  the  garden,  so  that  I  might  have  a 
taste  of  its  freshness  and  coolness  before  the 
heat  of  noon  came  on. 


57 


58         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Alphonsine  with  quick  divination  asked  if 
Mademoiselle  would  not  have  her  coffee 
in  the  garden  with  Mademoiselle  Germaine. 
Nothing  could  be  more  perfect.  Germaine 
is  fourteen,  black-eyed,  black-haired.  She 
regards  her  mother,  my  gentle  hostess,  with 
adoration,  and  between  her  and  la  petite  grand'- 
mere  there  exists  a  comradeship  that  laughs  at 
years  and  defies  any  possible  dissolution.  Ger- 
maine is  intensely  patriotic  and  a  hero-wor- 
shipper. She  takes  an  affectionate  interest  in 
Americans  because  they  have  made  a  hero  of  a 
Frenchman,  and  since  Lafayette  is  a  loved  name 
across  the  seas,  she  has  admitted  the  name  of 
Washington  into  her  exclusive  Hall  of  Fame. 
She  is  just  now  studying  American  History  and 
she  asks  me  many  questions  which  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  answer ;  but  my  memory  is  imperfect.  Be- 
sides, the  beauty  of  the  morning  is  very  distract- 
ing. I  suggest  that  we  look  for  the  merle  who 
sings  at  times  so  triumphantly,  and  at  times  with 
such  sadness.  So  we  set  about  our  quest  and 
peer  up  into  the  tall  trees,  but  fail  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  him.  By  following  his  song,  how- 
ever, we  become  convinced  that  he  is  in  the 
tallest  tree,  that  grows  up  close  to  the  convent 


VANITY     OF    LEARNING       59 

wall.  There  are  some  windows  there,  little 
narrow  windows,  from  which,  Germaine  and  I 
conclude,  but  a  very  small  and  misleading  portion 
of  the  garden  can  be  seen.  And  we  are  glad 
that  we  are  free  and  that  we  can  feel  the  melody 
that  the  merle  is  expressing  for  us.  Just  at  this 
moment  we  see  a  white  hand  thrust  out  of  one 
of  the  high  windows,  holding  a  cage  which  it 
hangs  on  a  hook  outside  the  edge.  In  the  cage  is 
a  bird,  our  bird,  whose  songs  have  been  such  a 
joy  to  us.  And  now  we  know  why  some  of  his 
notes  are  sad. 

As  I  went  away  from  the  garden  the  world 
seemed  a  little  out  of  joint;  a  cloud  had  come 
over  the  sunshine,  a  taste  of  bitterness  flavored 
the  perfect  enjoyment  of  the  day.  When  this 
happens  to  be  the  case,  one  notes  events  with  a 
bit  of  unconscious  cynicism,  and  this  must  have 
been  my  mood  when  I  went  toward  the  Sorbonne. 
I  had  promised  myself  the  experience  of  hearing 
a  candidate  for  the  doctor's  degree  of  philosophy 
defend  his  thesis  and  I  had  been  told  that  this 
was  to  be  a  battle  royal. 

The  Salle  du  Doctorat  in  the  Sorbonne  is  very 
beautiful,  very  dignified  and  very  ornate.  There 
is  a  richness  and  affluence  of  decoration  about 


60         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

most  of  the  public  rooms  which  would  make  them 
seem  vulgar  anywhere  else  but  in  a  nation  where 
taste  and  a  sense  of  proportion  are  inborn  in- 
stincts. It  is  a  rectangular  room,  very  high  and 
with  full-length  portraits  about  the  walls  of 
Richelieu,  Corneille,  Moliere,  Pascal,  and  other 
dead  and  gone  worthies  who  do  not  seem  to  feel 
in  the  least  scandalized  at  each  other's  presence. 
Under  the  portrait  of  the  great  cardinal,  at  the 
end  opposite  the  entrance,  stands  the  desk  of  the 
judges. 

When  I  entered,  the  room  was  full  of  spec- 
tators, some  attracted  by  interest  in  the  candidate, 
others  by  interest  in  the  judges,  and  others 
coming  out  of  pure  curiosity.  There  was  an  un- 
usual proportion  of  distinguished-looking  gentle- 
men, a  number  of  students,  and  some  nondescript 
sort  of  people  who  seemed  to  have  no  other  occu- 
pation than  that  of  helping  to  vitiate  the  air  in 
the  lecture  halls  of  the  University.  In  front  of 
me  were  two  young  women  in  the  unconventional 
dress  which  marked  them  as  belonging  to  the 
artist  class.  One  of  them  had  pretty  Jewish 
features  and  wore  an  immense  black  hat  set  at  a 
hazardous  angle  upon  a  mass  of  tumbled  hair. 
The  other  had   strong  handsome   features   and 


VANITY     OF    LEARNING       61 

wore  a  small  sailor  hat  perched  upon  smooth 
yellow  coils.  They  were  busy  sketching  types 
and  soon,  having  exhausted  models  from  one 
point  of  vantage,  they  fell  into  an  animated  dis- 
cussion, the  result  of  which  was  that  they  rose 
and  changed  their  places  with  a  charming  dis- 
regard of  the  disturbance  they  caused.  They 
crossed  the  aisle  and  made  several  people  rise 
in  order  to  pass  in  to  some  vacant  seats  well  in 
the  centre.  Later  I  heard  a  shuffling  of  feet  and 
saw  them  change  their  point  of  view  again. 
However,  no  one  seemed  to  be  annoyed.  It 
was  a  delightful  illustration  of  the  national  device 
libcrte,  egalite,  f  rat  emit  c. 

As  I  looked  over  the  crowded  room  I  wondered 
to  myself  with  an  inward  chuckle  how  many 
distinguished  citizens  of  New  York  or  Chicago 
would  be  tempted  to  attend  the  examinations  for 
Doctor  of  Philosophy  in  their  respectively  neigh- 
boring universities. 

The  candidate  was  already  on  the  grill  and 
his  misery  was  not  lessened  by  the  presence  of  all 
his  relatives.  In  the  rows  nearest  him,  painfully 
reminiscent  of  chief  mourners,  were  his  wife, 
his  son,  his  mother  and  father,  her  mother  and 
father,  and  so  on  to  cousins  four  times  removed. 


62         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

The  deceased,  —  I  should  say,  the  candidate,  — 
was  seated  with  his  back  to  the  audience  and 
looking  up  to,  and  facing,  his  judges,  three 
doughty  champions  of  letters  in  the  Faculty  of 
the  Sorbonne.  Judge  number  one  began  by 
asking  the  candidate  to  give  a  short  outline  of 
his  thesis.  The  thesis  lay  like  a  huge  bone  of 
contention  on  the  table  between  those  who  were 
to  attack  it  and  him  who  was  to  defend  it.  It 
was  a  bulky  volume  of  a  formidable  air  but  its 
creator  and  compiler  disposed  of  it  in  about 
fifteen  minutes  in  a  clear,  definite,  and  very  com- 
prehensive analysis.  He  was  a  thin  consumptive- 
looking  man  with  an  exaggeratedly  nervous 
manner.  He  kept  violently  stirring  his  sugar  and 
water,  clicking  the  spoon  against  the  glass,  sipping 
from  it  feverishly,  and  every  now  and  then  turn- 
ing around  to  cast  a  resentful,  baleful  glance  upon 
the  phalanx  of  relatives. 

When  he  had  finished  his  exposition,  the  first 
judge  complimented  him  delicately  and  at  length 
on  his  outline  and  then  on  the  book  in  general. 
In  this  way  he  was  able  to  show  the  audience 
that  he  was  as  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  thesis 
as  was  the  author  himself.  This  was  the  first 
skirmish,  perfectly  harmless,  perfectly  polite  and 


VANITY     OF    LEARNING       63 

agreeable.  But,  having  administered  the  sugar, 
he  began  to  administer  the  medicine.  He  had 
noticed  here  and  there,  nothing  very  grave  to  be 
sure,  but  he  wondered  if,  in  the  title  to  chapter 
so  and  so,  the  candidate  had  not  been  a  trifle  care- 
less in  using  a  certain  term  which,  —  perhaps 
after  all  he  was  entirely  mistaken,  —  but  would 
the  candidate  have  the  excessive  amiability  to 
explain  and  define  a  little  more  clearly  what  he 
meant  by  such  and  such  an  expression?  The 
candidate,  feverish  and  eager,  was  already 
gesticulating  before  the  judge's  delicate  rapier 
stroke  had  reached  him,  and  the  two  voices  rose 
in  a  duo  that  thoroughly  confused  and  delighted 
the  audience,  but  seemed  to  disturb  neither  of  the 
principals  in  the  combat.  And  this  went  on  for 
over  an  hour.  The  judge,  thrusting,  now  mock- 
ingly, now  laughingly,  but  always  with  infinite 
grace,  while  the  candidate  parried  the  strokes 
and  lunged  back,  nearly  always  effectively,  but 
feverishly,  noisily,  with  many  gesticulations. 
Only  once  or  twice  did  he  acknowledge  the  justice 
of  a  criticism,  as  when  the  judge  said  with  bland 
politeness : 

"  May    I    ask,    not    with    impertinence,    not 
from   idle   curiosity,   but   from   an   intense   de- 


64>        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

sire  to  know,  why  you  use  four  times,  first  on 
page  fifty-six,  again  on  page  one  hundred  and 
five,  then  on  page  three  hundred  and  sixty-four, 
and  still  again  on  page  five  hundred  and  three, 
such  and  such  a  term  ?  " 

And  the  candidate  let  his  features  relax  for 
the  first  time  and  laughed  as  he  ingenuously 
answered  —  "I  have  n't  the  least  idea." 

When  the  first  inquisitor  was  through,  the 
second  one  took  up  the  subject.  His  attack  was 
a  little  heavier;  there  were  not  so  many  compli- 
ments bestowed ;  there  was  less  of  the  rapier  and 
more  of  the  broadsword.  He  criticised  the  form 
of  the  thesis  and  cited  illogical  conclusions  and 
contradictory  statements  which  the  candidate 
was  asked  to  reconstruct  and  then  not  given 
time  to  do. 

The  third  inquisitor  was  a  handsome,  self- 
satisfied  looking  person,  who  took  solid  comfort 
in  referring  to  his  own  works  and  citing  passages 
therefrom.  Being  much  more  absorbed  in  show- 
ing his  own  armor,  he  made  little  effort  to  thrust 
at  the  battered  breastplate  of  the  victim.  After 
hours  of  this  intellectual  tilting  the  ordeal  was 
over,  the  candidate  was  declared  successful,  his 


VANITY     OF    LEARNING       65 

book  pronounced  a  classic  and  he  was  congratu- 
lated by  all  his  judges. 

He  turns  from  the  judicial  bench  and  faces  his 
relatives,  who  crowd  around  him,  his  wife  a 
little  flushed  and  trembling.  His  tall  son  kisses 
him  impulsively  on  either  cheek,  and  when  his 
little  old  mother,  clad  in  black,  comes  up  to  him, 
he  bends  his  head  that  she  may  kiss  him  on  his 
brow.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  nervous  chatter- 
ing and  excited  gesturing  and  I  go  away  wonder- 
ing what  his  feelings  are.  For  nine  years  he  has 
been  bending  all  his  energies  to  reach  this  goal, 
to  obtain  what  every  Frenchman  with  orthodox 
views  on  the  educational  system  desires  most 
earnestly.  Now  he  has  attained  his  ambition. 
I  am  told  he  will  be  appointed  to  a  professorship 
in  a  provincial  city.  Banished  from  Paris !  No 
Frenchman  who  has  once  lived  here  can  think 
of  this  with  calm.  For  Paris  is,  in  an  extraordi- 
nary degree,  the  mecca  of  all  literary  and  pro- 
fessional men,  and  they  keep  coming  here  while 
protesting  to  foreigners  that  the  only  way  really 
to  know  and  understand  France  is  to  go  to  the 
smallest  towns  and  study  the  people  who  have 
been  unspoiled  by  the  life  of  the  city. 


VIII 

The  Shadows  in  the  Garden 

TN  the  House  of  the  Garden  we  nearly  always 
**■  have  guests  at  dinner.  The  great  green  doors 
which  close  so  quickly  upon  you  when  you  go 
out  into  the  street  open  hospitably  to  those  who 
are  bidden.  At  dinner,  the  evening  after  the 
examination  at  the  Sorbonne,  there  were  three 
guests.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Degas  I  knew 
well.  He  is  a  Normand,  tall,  well-built,  with 
close-cropped  white  hair,  rosy  complexion  and 
gray  military  moustache.  He  is  one  of  these 
kindly,  clever,  good-hearted  men  whose  nature 
belongs  to  no  particular  nation  nor  generation 
and  whom  every  one  likes  quickly  and   sponta- 

6b 


SHADOWS     IN     THE     GARDEN       67 

neously.  He  is  a  professor  in  one  of  the  lycees 
for  boys  and  is  perfectly  content  to  remain  a 
pedagogue  the  rest  of  his  life.  Indeed,  he  told 
me,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye,  that  he  had 
learned  now  to  take  his  gait  like  an  old  cab  horse, 
and  that  nothing  could  ever  induce  him  to  do 
more  than  jog  comfortably  along. 

"  What  about  the  beatings,"  quoth  I,  "  do  you 
get  used  to  them  ?  " 

"Ah,  —  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  he  replied. 
"  They  do  not  hurt  once  your  hide  is  accustomed 
to  them,  and  the  hardening  process  is  not  so  bad 
as  you  might  think." 

Madame  Degas  is  young,  dark,  and  pic- 
turesque, somewhat  emancipated  in  manner,  full 
of  all  sorts  of  plans  and  schemes,  from  the  sav- 
ing of  chicken  feathers  for  her  winter  hats,  to 
the  bringing  up  of  children  without  the  laying 
on  of  hands.  Her  husband  listens  to  her  with 
a  kindly  paternal  air,  tolerantly  allows  his  three 
small  boys  to  tyrannize  over  him,  and  patiently 
endures  the  frequently  recurring  uncomfortable 
periods  when  the  house  is  servantless. 

The  third  guest  is  a  stranger  to  me.  When  he 
is  presented  he  makes  such  a  profound  bow  that 
all  I  see  is  a  bent  head  suffering  from  an  indigence 


68         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

of  natural  covering.  He  is  spare  of  figure  and  I 
get  an  impression  of  ill-fitting  evening  clothes. 
It  is  only  when  we  are  at  dinner  and  I  find  him 
opposite  me  that  I  see  his  face.  It  is  narrow, 
thin,  and  the  very  high  forehead  seems  dis- 
proportionately large.  His  eyes  are  deep  set  and 
very  brilliant,  while  his  close-cropped  whiskers 
half  hide  a  nervous  large  mouth.  He  does  not 
mingle  much  in  the  general  conversation  but  when 
a  question  is  addressed  to  him  he  answers  it 
with  a  grave  consideration  and  conscientiousness 
that  is  almost  a  reproach  to  the  questioner.  The 
conversation  never  lags  for  a  moment  after  it 
is  once  in  full  swing. 

There  is  usually  close  attention  to  business 
during  the  soup  course,  but  as  soon  as  it  is  dis- 
posed of  and  a  sip  of  wine  has  been  taken, 
tongues  are  loosened  and  ideas  flow.  It  has  been 
interesting  to  me  to  note  the  subtle  differences 
between  social  life  in  France  and  America,  in 
circles  who  are  interested  in  more  or  less  the 
same  things.  In  America  women  take  the 
initiative  not  only  in  the  organization  of  social 
functions  but  in  conversation  and  entertaining. 
Mrs.  Jones  decides  to  give  a  dinner,  she  asks  her 
husband  if  he  will  be  free  on  such  and  such  an 


SHADOWS     IN     THE     GARDEN       69 

evening,  she  sends  out  her  invitations,  as  often 
as  not  without  consulting  her  husband.  She 
plans  to  have  an  "  entertainer "  come  in  after 
dinner  to  relieve  her  guests  from  the  responsi- 
bility of  any  great  mental  effort.  At  table  the 
American  man,  tired  with  a  long  day  of  business 
or  professional  activities,  expects  to  be  diverted 
by  the  talk  of  the  lady  next  to  him  and  he  allows 
her  to  take  the  initiative.  As  a  consequence,  the 
conversation  is  seldom  general  and  is  very  apt  to 
turn  to  personal  and  trivial  matters.  In  France 
the  husband  has  more  leisure  and  taste  for  social 
affairs.  Very  often  he  arranges  the  dinner,  plans 
for  the  guests  and,  when  the  company  is  assem- 
bled, he  leads  in  the  conversation  and  all  partici- 
pate in  it.  At  table  the  men  talk  quite  as  much, 
if  not  more,  than  the  women.  They  talk  for  the 
sake  of  being  heard;  they  love  to  have  an  audi- 
ence; hence  their  conversation  is  more  finished, 
and  more  stilted  perhaps  than  ours.  They  have 
more  elegance,  we  have  more  spontaneity;  they 
are  more  improving,  and  we  are  more  stimulat- 
ing. 

But  I  am  forgetting  our  particular  dinner  and 
we  have  now  reached  the  dessert.  The  subjects 
of  talk  have  been  many  and  varied.     We  began 


70        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

with  a  discussion  of  Paul  Bourget's  novel, 
"  L'Emigre,"  which  led  to  animated  debate  as  to 
whether  the  English  system  of  primogeniture 
was  not  the  only  one  to  preserve  the  best  in  a 
nation.  We  then  proceeded  to  differentiate  the 
literary  characteristics  of  the  Danes  from  those 
of  the  Swedes  and  Norwegians,  and  decided 
almost  unanimously  that  the  former  were  more 
individual,  explosive  and  unbalanced.  This 
having  been  satisfactorily  agreed  upon,  a  con- 
troversy arose  as  to  who  was  the  first,  Pascal 
or  Diderot,  to  think  of  making  physical  experi- 
ments at  different  altitudes.  This  grew  so  heated 
that  the  matter  was  left  unsettled,  and  a  tactful 
turn  was  given  to  the  conversation  by  some  one 
asking  our  serious  guest  what  his  opinion  was 
as  to  the  much  mooted  question  whether  Michelet 
did  or  did  not  refuse  to  visit  his  dying  son.  The 
ensuing  discussion  brought  us  on  to  a  more 
personal  territory  and  we  actually  fell  to  the 
level  of  discussing  the  sad  degeneracy  in  literary 
matters  of  Albert  Delmare.  When,  to  the  joy 
of  criticising  an  author  is  added  the  joy  of 
criticising  a  friend,  a  zestful  pleasure  is  experi- 
enced, and  as  we  all  knew  this  unfortunate  critic 
the  talk   grew   quite   brilliant   until   the   gentle 


SHADOWS     IN     THE     GARDEN       71 

Hostess  gave  the  signal  for  us  to  pass  into  the 
salon. 

In  France  the  men  do  not  always  remain  to 
smoke,  away  from  the  women,  and  so  we  had  our 
coffee  comfortably  together.  Philippe  and  I  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  balconied  windows  overlook- 
ing the  garden.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  Philippe 
was  one  of  the  guests.  He  is  with  us  so  often 
and  la  petite  grand'mere  is  always  so  glad  to  have 
him  come,  that  he  is  quite  like  one  of  the  family. 
I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  asking  him  about 
people  and  things  I  do  not  quite  understand. 
This  evening  I  was  curious  about  the  serious 
guest,  for  he  seemed  to  me  a  man  from  whom  the 
soul  had  gone  out,  and  who  worked,  moved  by 
intellectual  springs.  Philippe  told  me  that  he 
had  been  a  professor  in  a  provincial  university, 
that  he  had  done  a  remarkable  piece  of  scholarly 
work  and  had  thus  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Minister  of  Instruction.  He  was  called  to  Paris 
and  although  his  roots  had  struck  deep  into  the 
soil  of  his  native  town  he  came  without  a  moment 
of  hesitation.  He  brought  with  him  his  wife,  a 
pretty  young  thing,  who  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  girl  and  whose  mind  was  filled  with  ideas  as 
charming,  tenuous,  and  fleeting  as  clouds  in  a 


72         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

summer  sky.  He  plunged  into  his  new  work 
and  was  soon  utterly  absorbed  in  it  and  oblivious 
of  how  new  conditions  might  affect  his  family. 
She,  left  to  herself  without  acquaintances,  obliged 
to  live  with  strict  economy  and  missing  pitifully 
the  intimate  associations  of  the  town  where  she 
had  always  lived,  endured  it  as  long  as  she  could. 
Then  one  tragic  day  her  husband  was  awakened 
from  his  absorption  to  find  that  she  had  dis- 
appeared, and  that  his  own  trusted  friend  had 
gone  with  her. 

When  he  recovered  from  the  blow  he  was 
a  different  man.  As  soon  as  the  proper  for- 
malities had  been  gone  through  with,  he  mar- 
ried a  middle-aged  woman  who  would  make 
a  good  mother  for  the  three  little  waifs,  left 
to  his  absent-minded  care.  He  never  referred 
to  his  past,  he  never  accompanied  his  wife  any- 
where, he  went  out  but  seldom,  and  he  became 
more  deeply  absorbed  than  ever  in  his  work. 
But  something  was  lost,  the  brilliancy,  the  origi- 
nality, the  creative  power  was  gone,  and  he  never 
became  what  his  talent  had  promised  he  would  be. 
I  looked  across  to  where  he  was  sitting  bent  over 
in  a  chair,  talking  dispiritedly  to  la  petite  grand'- 
tnere  and  I  thought  involuntarily  of  M.  Degas' 


SHADOWS     IN     THE     GARDEN       73 

cab    horse.     Do   they    all    become    hardened,    I 
wondered. 

That  night  as  I  looked  out  on  my  garden  it 
failed  to  bring  peace  to  me  for  as  my  eyes 
searched  its  quiet  shadows  I  seemed  to  see  blind 
human  creatures  groping  about  to  find  the  true 
path  and  failing  piteously.  Mistaken  ones  toiling 
and  striving  and  finding  only  disappointment  and 
death.  Surely  there  must  be  some  one  to  show 
us  the  way.     Surely  we  are  not  all  without  sight. 

Upon  this  little  island  of  our  earth 
Encircled  by  the  stream  of  death, 
Within  a  forest  dark  with  phantom  shade 
We  wander,  helpless  and  afraid. 

Each,  groping,  seeks  some  human  hand  to 

touch 
Yet  dreads  to  feel  Death's  icy  clutch. 
And  one  shrieks  out  lest  he  be  left  behind 
For  all  of  us  oh  God !  are  blind. 

It  helps  us  not,  in  struggling  for  the  way, 
That  some  once  saw  the  light  of  day. 
Pale  memories,  washed  dim  with  tears, 
Of  morning  suns  seen  through  a  mist  of 
years. 


74         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

It  matters  not  in  seeking  the  lost  path, 
That  the  full  measure  of  the  wrath 
Has  not  been  meted  out  to  those 
Who  see  faint  shapes,  as  at  the  evening's 
close. 

For  when  the  awful  truth  at  last  is  known 

That  we  are  left  blind  and  alone, 

Our  outstretched   arms   in  maddened   fear 

we  fling 
And  huddled  close,  await  the  horror  of  the 

Thing. 

But  one,  through  sightless  eyes,  discerns  the 

goal. 
With  face  serene  and  faith-steeped  soul 
She  lifts  a  child,  whose  gaze,  undimmed  by 

fears 
Sees  clear  the  promise  of  the  years. 

The  moon  shone  from  behind  a  cloud  which 
had  been  veiling  it,  the  stars  gleamed  more 
brightly,  and,  whether  it  was  because  my  eyes  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  dimness,  or  because  a 
veil  had  been  lifted,  I  now  saw  clearly  that  the 
confused  shadows  were  bushes  standing  in  their 
proper  places  beside  the  clean  gravelled  paths. 


IX 

Wedding  Bells 

TUST  before  waking  the  next  morning  I  had 
**  a  new  dream.  I  was  in  a  strange  country; 
it  was  early  morning  and  the  haze  was  on  every- 
thing. There  was  a  valley  with  blue  hills  on 
either  side,  hills  that  melted  into  other  hills,  into 
far  vistas  that  could  be  seen  with  marvellous 
distinctness.  I  was  on  a  high  slope  on  one  side 
of  the  valley.  All  about  me  was  a  wondrous 
green  grass  of  velvet,  trees  glittering  in  the  dew, 
and,  as  I  walked  and  ran,  I  felt  no  sense  of 
weight  nor  weariness.  Across  the  valley  the 
hills  were  dotted  with  fruit  trees  laden  with 
blossoms,  flowers  of  snow  white,  and  rosy  tinted 
fragrant  marvels.  And  as  I  floated,  as  one  does 
in  dreams,  a  sense  of  beauty  in  color  and  in 
perfume  welled  up  in  my  soul  and  so  filled  my 
whole  being  with  ecstasy  that  it  was  almost  pain. 
The  waves  of  feeling  filled  my  eyes  with  tears 
and  I  awoke  with  my  cheeks  wet  and  my  heart 
throbbing  with  an  exquisite  sensation  which  I 
had  never  felt  in  such  completeness  in  my  waking 
hours. 

75 


76         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

The  first  sound  I  heard  was  the  joyous  trill 
of  the  merle.  Now  that  I  know  he  is  caged, 
respect  is  added  to  my  admiration.  Perhaps  he 
sings  more  divinely  because  of  his  limitations. 
If  he  were  free  he  would  have  so  many  distrac- 
tions and  he  would  have  more  ways  of  express- 
ing himself.  Now,  all  his  little  being  must  be 
poured  out  in  song  and  hopping  from  perch  to 
perch.  The  night  had  cooled  the  air  and  my 
dream,  the  song,  the  freshness,  had  banished 
away  all  gray  thoughts  of  the  evening  before. 
Besides  it  was  a  time  in  which  to  be  happy,  for 
it  was  the  wedding  day  of  pretty  Genevieve 
D'Albert. 

All  of  us  at  the  House  of  the  Garden 
were  interested  in  Genevieve's  wedding,  for  it 
was  to  be  a  manage  d 'amour  and  we  spoke  of  it 
as  though  that  were  quite  an  unusual  thing.  Be- 
sides, Genevieve  had  had  her  little  tragedy  and 
it  was  quite  time  that  her  happy  days  should 
come.  When  she  was  very  young,  still  under 
twenty,  she  had  been  engaged  to  a  young  man 
who  seemed  to  be  eminently  satisfactory.  The 
arrangements  for  the  wedding  had  all  been  made, 
a  modest  but  bewildering  trousseau  had  been 
prepared,  when  it  was  discovered  that  the  young 


78         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

man  was  leading  several  kinds  of  lives,  none  of 
them  being  of  lilial  whiteness.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  great,  for  Genevieve  had  no  dot,  so 
that  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  find- 
ing the  right  kind  of  a  husband,  or  indeed  any 
husband  at  all. 

Happily  a  very  unusual  Count  met  her,  heard 
her  sing  and  speedily  fell  in  love  with  her.  The 
lack  of  a  dot  was  politely  overlooked  and  now 
we  were  all  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  two 
happy  people  united.  The  wedding  was  to  take 
place  in  an  old  church  hidden  in  one  of  those 
side  streets  which  unexpectedly  branch  off  at  a 
sharp  angle  from  a  perfectly  staid  thoroughfare 
and  go  straggling  off  in  a  purposeless  fashion, 
until  they  are  suddenly  brought  up  against  a 
blank  wall. 

On  one  of  these  vagrant  and  picturesque 
streets  stands  the  old  church  which  boasts  of 
generations  of  worshippers  from  the  same  fami- 
lies. This  gives  it  an  air  of  respectability  which 
is  increased  by  its  uncompromisingly  plain  fagade 
and  its  honest  square  tower.  It  seemed  quite 
proper  that  there  should  be  no  bridal  wreaths 
or  other  indications  of  a  festive  nature.  Any 
such   decorative   attempt   would   have  been   re- 


WEDDING     BELLS  79 

garded  frowningly  by  the  old  gray  church  and 
it  would  have  looked  more  grim  than  ever.  The 
big  carriages  lumbered  heavily  up  the  narrow 
street,  while  the  guests,  who  came  on  foot,  had  to 
dodge  in  and  out  as  best  they  could ;  for  the  side- 
walks had  shrunk  into  the  houses  long  ago. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  and  the  sober  church 
had  relaxed  enough  from  its  conventional  attitude 
to  throw  open  wide  its  doors  and  let  a  few  daring 
rays  shine  in  to  the  dim  interior.  We  hastily 
sought  seats  from  which  we  might  view  the 
spectacle.  Leading  the  procession  came  the  two 
beadles  in  all  the  bravery  of  gold  lace,  white 
plumes,  and  heavy  chains.  They  tell  me  that  the 
office  of  beadle  is  often  hereditary  and  that  ex- 
plains the  majesty  of  gesture  and  movement  of 
this  particular  class.  It  could  not  have  been 
learned  in  one  generation.  Following  the  beadle 
came  the  bride,  leaning  prettily  on  her  father's 
arm,  then  the  groom  with  his  mother  who  was 
gorgeous  in  violet,  nodding  plumes  and  lace ;  then 
the  mother  of  the  bride  on  the  rather  frail  arm  of 
the  bride's  brother,  and  then  came  numberless 
relatives  two  by  two  down  to  the  tiny  little  cousin 
In  blue  silk. 

The  bride  and  groom  took  their  places  side  by 


80        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

side  in  front  of  two  chairs  placed  directly  before 
the  altar,  two  pompous  chairs  of  gilded  carved 
wood  and  red  damask.  The  cortege  took  its 
place  in  smaller  chairs  at  either  side  of  the  altar 
and  facing  it.  We  thus  had  an  excellent  oppor- 
tunity for  studying  the  backs  of  the  two  families 
which  were  about  to  be  allied.  As  far  as  breadth 
was  concerned  the  bride's  family  had  the  advan- 
tage, although  there  was  an  old  dowager  on  the 
young  husband's  side  who  measured  a  noble  ex- 
panse of  purple  satin.  This  was  perhaps  to  com- 
pensate for  the  extreme  slenderness  of  the  groom, 
whose  shoulders  were  not  much  wider  than  the 
distance  between  his  ears,  and  whose  collar  was 
grotesquely  high,  but  of  whom  all  said  with 
satisfaction  —  "  //  est  bien  mince  mais  tres  dis- 
tingue." 

The  ceremony  was  long.  The  discourse  de- 
livered to  the  young  couple  by  the  stout  priest 
was  unintelligible  to  the  audience,  and  the  con- 
stant necessity  of  rising  and  falling,  kneeling  and 
standing,  according  to  the  tinkling  of  a  bell  rung 
by  an  irresponsible-looking  young  person  in  a 
lace  slip,  made  us  welcome  the  excitement  fur- 
nished by  the  ceremony  of  the  qiiete.  Three 
young  girls  led  by  three  young  men,  and  each 


WEDDING     BELLS  81 

couple  preceded  by  a  beadle,  went  about  among 
the  audience.  The  young  girls  each  held  out 
mutely,  but  smilingly,  charming  little  bags  of  silk 
to  match  their  costumes,  and  destined  to  receive 
the  offerings  for  the  poor.  Philippe  happened 
to  be  one  of  the  escorts  and  I  noticed  how  careful 
he  was  of  the  rather  frightened-looking  little 
demoiselle  d'  honneur  whom  he  guided  in  and 
out,  once  in  a  while  saying  something  to  reassure 
her.  He  looked  very  handsome,  too,  and  I 
noticed  that  when  he  came  near  la  petite  grand'- 
mere  he  bent  his  tall  head  and  whispered  some- 
thing that  made  her  smile  responsively. 

The  quete  was  finally  finished  after  each  mem- 
ber of  the  audience,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  the 
congregation,  had  been  given  three  separate  and 
distinct  opportunities  of  contributing.  A  few 
last  words  were  pronounced  by  the  priest  and 
then  all  the  bridal  party  including  the  nearest 
relatives  passed  into  the  sacristy.  There,  in  the 
stuffy  dimness  of  the  stone  chamber,  they  ranged 
themselves  around  the  wall  and  every  one  went 
in  to  congratulate  the  bride  and  groom,  and  inci- 
dentally to  salute  those  of  the  relatives  whom 
one  might  happen  to  know.  The  final  act  was 
to  return  to  our  places  in  the  church  and  there 


82         A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

await  the  bridal  procession  which  now  passed 
in  from  the  sacristy  and  walked  down  the  aisle 
and  out  again  into  the  sunshine.  After  it  was 
all  over,  I  felt  a  certainty  about  the  durability 
of  the  knot,  a  feeling  induced  no  doubt  by  the 
thoroughness  and  deliberation  of  the  ceremony. 
There  seemed  an  effect  of  finality  about  it  that 
cannot  be  produced  by  our  glittering  matrimonial 
pageants  that  dazzle  the  eyes  for  a  few  minutes, 
before  a  theatrical  background. 

We  all  went  to  the  bride's  home  and  if  any 
more  ratification  of  the  alliance  was  needed,  it 
was  amply  done  there  in  pleasant  libations  and 
delicious  viands  which  only  French  chefs  know 
how  to  concoct.  Philippe  was,  as  usual,  here, 
there  and  everywhere,  now  giving  an  ice  to  one 
of  the  aunts,  now  talking  with  a  shy  cousin  from 
the  provinces;  but  when  I  was  leaving,  I  found 
him  beside  me,  and  he  asked  me  with  a  little 
air  of  audacity  befitting  the  suggestion  —  "  Sup- 
pose you  permit  me  to  walk  home  with  you  "  — 
then  anxiously  as  he  noticed  my  hesitation,  "  It 
will  be  all  right,  you  know,  for  you  are  not 
French." 

We  wandered  home  through  the  big  gardens 
partly  because  they  were  beautiful  and  especially 


WEDDING     BELLS  83 

because  it  was  not  the  shortest  way  home.  It 
was  Philippe,  however,  who  first  thought  of  that, 
at  least  he  spoke  of  it  first.  We  were  just  in 
the  mood  lazily  to  enjoy  everything  and  we 
watched  the  children  sailing  their  boats  in  the 
big  basin,  and  others  gracefully  playing  at  diabolo. 
As  we  sauntered  on  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
red  and  blue  uniforms  of  the  band  off  in  the 
distance  and  we  drifted  towards  the  enclosure, 
paid  our  four  sons  and  went  in.  Overhead  was 
a  leafy  canopy  of  that  delicate  exquisite  green  of 
spring  interlaced  by  graceful  black  branches  and 
supported  by  strong  upspringing  trunks,  that  rose 
with  almost  a  visible  movement  of  life.  This 
natural  shelter  caused  a  soft,  gentle  light  to  be 
diffused,  a  cool  verdant  glow  like  green  amber, 
or  sea  depths  seen  through  clear  waters,  giving 
one  a  sense  of  refreshment  that  was  grateful  and 
soothing  and  life  giving.  Once  in  a  while  a  bird 
darted  across  or  a  dove  winged  its  slower  flight 
and  perched  on  a  branch  to  listen  a  while. 

About  us  were  people  of  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions. Next  us  was  an  elderly  American  with  his 
second  wife  on  their  wedding  journey.  I  cannot 
tell  by  what  subtle  signs  we  knew  that  she  was 
not  the  first  consort,  but  Philippe  and  I  were  of 


84        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

one  mind  on  the  subject.  The  groom  had  new 
gloves  which  he  tried  not  to  take  off,  although  he 
was  thus  doing  violence  to  his  instincts,  and  her 
hat  had  a  garnish  of  bright  cherries.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  gloomy-looking  young  man  who 
listened  intently  to  the  music,  drawing  an  occa- 
sional deep  sigh.  Across  the  aisle  were  twins 
dressed  exactly  alike  in  gray,  green,  and  pink. 
They  were  not  little  girls ;  if  they  had  been  they 
might  have  been  picturesque.  As  it  was,  they 
were  incontestably  mothers  of  families,  and  the 
result  was  grotesque.  In  front  of  us  was  a  large, 
shapeless  woman  with  a  curious  home-made  hat 
who  had  in  the  seat  next  to  her  a  big  awkward 
dog  which  she  caressed  tenderly  from  time  to 
time.  When  she  turned  to  smile  on  him  her  face 
was  illumined. 


X 

Futility 

T?ITHER  the  wedding  or  the  walk  home  with 
■*--'  Philippe  or  both  together  had  been  too 
great  a  dissipation.  At  all  events  the  next  morn- 
ing I  awoke  with  a  profound  feeling  of  dissatis- 
faction with  myself.  I  realized  that  the  days 
had  been  slipping  by  and  that  I  had  been  playing ; 
I  had  been  an  onlooker  and  not  a  worker.  The 
task  I  came  to  do  was  scarcely  begun,  my 
precious  time  was  passing  and  I  had  accomplished 
nothing.  So  I  scarcely  waited  to  look  into  my 
garden  but  swallowed  my  chocolate  hastily, 
almost  resentfully,  and  then  went  out  into  the 
street.  So  great  was  my  haste  to  begin  work 
that  I  recklessly  took  a  cab  and  told  the  driver 
to  go  quickly  to  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale. 
Feverishly  I  sent  in  my  list  of  books,  knowing 
full  well  that  the  hottest  fever  would  have  time 
to  cool  before  the  deliberate,  softly  shod  attend- 
ants would  bring  me  what  I  wanted.  Fortu- 
nately there  were  some  books  in  reserve  and  I 
could  begin  to  work. 

85 


86         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

The  silence  of  the  place,  broken  only  by  the 
scratching  of  pens  or  the  low  whispers  of  some 
anxious  inquirer,  gradually  stilled  my  nerves  and 
I  fell  to  working  busily.  But  after  the  glow  of 
morning  had  passed  and  the  afternoon  wore  on, 
a  sense  of  uselessness  came  over  me.  I  leaned 
back  in  my  chair  and  looked  about  me.  At  the 
table  where  I  was  working  was  an  old  man.  I 
had  seen  him  here  before.  He  was  short,  round, 
and  red-cheeked,  with  bleary  blue  eyes  and  a 
white  fringe  of  hair  all  about  his  face.  His 
clothes  were  shiny  and  frayed  and  he  had  a 
greasy  scarf  around  his  neck.  Every  morning 
when  he  came  in  he  wore  an  air  of  jaunty  cheer 
and  flimsy  energy,  which  was  pathetically  and 
obviously  an  assumption.  He  always  gathered  a 
large  number  of  volumes  about  him,  and  he  had 
an  incalculable  number  of  soiled  slips  of  paper 
covered  with  notes  written  in  a  microscopical 
hand,  which  he  arranged  ceremoniously  on  the 
the  table  before  him.  From  time  to  time  he 
would  exchange  low  jocular  remarks  with  his 
neighbor  and  then  with  pursed  lips  and  an  air  of 
great  importance  he  would  begin  his  work.  This 
seemed  to  consist  in  copying  from  the  books 
about  him.     He  would  begin  with  apparent  vigor, 


88         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

then,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  his  pen  would 
drop  from  his  hand,  his  head  would  fall  forward 
on  his  chest  and  he  would  dream  away  and  nod 
until  a  more  violent  nod  than  usual  would  arouse 
him.  Then  he  would  look  furtively  around,  pick 
up  his  pen  in  a  casual  way;  but  before  he  had 
well  commenced  again  to  copy,  the  pen  had  fallen 
from  his  poor  old  nerveless  fingers  and  his  mind 
was  far  away  in  another  land. 

They  told  me  he  had  been  a  brilliant  journalist 
and  that  a  great  part  of  his  life  had  been  spent 
in  the  library.  He  could  no  longer  control  his 
mind  but  the  library  habit  was  so  strong  that  he 
could  be  happy  nowhere  else.  When  the  attend- 
ant's voice  rang  out  at  closing  time  with  the 
sonorous  cry  "On  fcrme!"  the  ex-journalist 
would  arouse  himself  and  with  a  visible  effort 
become  again  the  busy  bustling  old  worker  of 
the  morning.  He  would  gather  his  notes  to- 
gether in  a  critical,  judicial  fashion,  as  though 
summing  up  the  work  of  the  day,  shake  his  head 
like  a  strong  man  dissatisfied  with  strenuous  but 
insufficient  effort,  then  throwing  off  his  annoy- 
ance would  turn  to  his  neighbor,  exchange  greet- 
ings and  farewells  and  then  trot  out  with  the 
short  shuffling  step  of  the  aged. 


FUTILITY  89 

The  shadow  of  this  futile  old  man  followed 
me  home  and  as  I  sat  at  my  window  in  the 
twilight  and  looked  into  my  garden  its  beauty 
and  quiet  did  not  bring  their  usual  refreshment 
to  my  soul,  for  I  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of 
uselessness.  Just  then  a  tall,  vigorous  young 
figure  entered  the  garden  and  almost  simultane- 
ously Alphonsine  knocked  at  my  door  and  said 
breathlessly  (I  know  she  ran  all  the  way  up- 
stairs), "  Monsieur  Philippe  is  in  the  garden  and 
desires  to  speak  to  Mademoiselle." 

He  has  some  new  idea  about  his  Pascal  and  he 
wants  to  talk  to  me  about  it,  said  I,  and  the 
thought  brought  a  sudden  unexpected  wave  of 
happiness.  It  mattered  not  a  fig  to  me  whether 
it  was  Pascal  or  any  other  old  worthy.  The  real 
thing  was  that  Philippe  had  come  to  me,  that  he 
needed  me.     And  I  went  down  into  the  garden. 


XI 

The  Loneliness  of  Bleu-bleu 

THE  black  cat  of  the  concierge  is  a  common- 
place creature.  One  can  tell  it  by  the  sly 
way  in  which  he  prowls  about  the  garden  paths 
watching  stealthily  some  happy  songster  and 
waiting  for  an  unguarded  moment  when  he  can 
spring  upon  him  and  stop  his  song  forever.  He 
always  comes  up  to  me  purring  with  offensive 
friendliness  after  such  an  exploit,  hoping  to  de- 
ceive me  with  his  shallow  artifices.  He  is 
obsequious,  sinuous,  altogether  a  thorough  hypo- 
crite of  low  bourgeois  origin. 

Not  so  Bleu-bleu.  Bleu-bleu  seldom  goes  out 
into  the  garden.  He  prefers  the  soft,  velvety 
rugs  in  the  big  sunny  room  of  la  petite  grand'- 
mere.  Bleu-bleu  ignores  with  fine  disdain  the 
very  existence  of  the  black  cat.  Bleu-bleu 
is  gigantic  in  size  and  his  fur  is  magnificent, 
of  a  steel  blue-gray.  His  eyes  are  a  fathom- 
less yellow  with  an  inscrutable  look  in  the 
narrow  sinister  slit  of  the  pupil,  and  his  tail, 
long  and  luxuriant,  scarcely  ever  lies  prone,  but 

90 


LONELINESS     OF     BLEU -BLEU       91 

rises  belligerently  or  waves  with  suave  benignity 
as  the  mood  ordains.  Bleu-bleu  is  never  playful, 
heaven  forbid!  He  spends  much  of  his  time  in 
deep  meditation  on  his  soft  cushion  close  be- 
side his  little  mistress.  She  is  the  only  one  from 
whom  any  liberties  are  permitted.  She  alone 
may  caress  him,  to  her  alone  does  he  pour  out  his 
soul  in  inarticulate  purrings.  He  sometimes 
deigns  to  enter  the  salon  of  an  evening  when  we 
are  gathered  there  after  dinner  and  his  advent 
always  causes  a  sensation.  He  enters  with  slow, 
silent  dignity,  his  tail  waving  softly,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  a  golden  light.  None  of  us  ever 
thinks  of  calling  him  affectionately,  but  we  look 
at  him  admiringly  and  some  one  exclaims,  "  Qu'  il 
est  beau!"  If  la  petite  grand' mere  happens  not 
to  be  present  he  walks  solemnly  up  to  her  chair, 
leaps  into  it  with  a  slow,  dignified  motion,  very 
different  from  the  quick,  nervous  plunge  of  the 
black  cat,  and  settles  down  with  an  air  of  mourn- 
ful possession.  I  think  we  are  all  afraid  of 
Bleu-bleu,  except  grand'mere.  But  with  all  his 
grandeur  there  is  something  very  pathetic  about 
Bleu-bleu,  for  his  very  greatness  has  isolated  him, 
and  he  is  a  lonely  soul.  I  know  he  yearns  with 
intense  longing  to  mingle  with  his  kind,  to  be 


92         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

able  to  go  down  into  the  garden  and  have  an  orgy 
with  the  black  cat  or  any  other  feline,  to  chase 
birds,  to  climb  trees,  to  indulge  in  the  joys  and 
weaknesses  of  his  species,  but  he  cannot.  Fate 
has  decreed  that  he  should  be  set  apart,  that  he 
should  be  great  and  solitary.  Deep  down  in  his 
cat  soul  he  is  puzzled  and  cannot  understand,  he 
follows  blindly  the  instinct  that  raises  him  above 
his  fellows  and  makes  him  magnificently  lonely. 
Only  la  petite  grand'mere  can  understand,  and, 
being  human,  understands  but  imperfectly. 

I  inveigled  Bleu-bleu  down  into  the  garden 
this  morning.  It  was  glorious  in  the  sunlight  and 
still  fresh  from  the  sleep  of  the  night.  But  the 
gravel  of  the  paths  hurt  Bleu-bleu's  aristocratic 
paws  and  the  dew  on  the  grass  made  him  sneeze. 
He  turned  suddenly  from  me  and  went  back  to 
his  dry  velvet  rugs,  waving  his  tail  in  reproachful 
sorrow  over  my  vulgar  tastes.  I  could  not  wait 
to  lure  him  back  again  or  even  apologize  to  him, 
for  we,  my  Hostess,  Germaine,  and  I,  were  to  go 
to  take  the  midday  meal  with  the  Poet. 

The  Poet  had  withdrawn  from  Paris  when  he 
found  himself  doomed  no  longer  to  walk  its  be- 
loved streets  or  mingle  in  its  cherished  activities. 
When  he  knew  that  the  struggle  with  the  last 
great  Foe  was  to  be  a  long  one,  he  chose  to  go 


LONELINESS     OF     BLEU -BLEU       93 

to  one  of  those  peaceful  little  suburbs  where 
quaint  old  villas  open  their  gates  on  steep  winding 
streets  and  where  a  kindly  forest  surrounds  the 
community  with  cool  protecting  arms.  And  it 
was  here  we  found  him  after  a  noisy,  jerky  ride 
on  the  top  of  a  tram.  We  pulled  the  bell  at  the 
iron  gate  in  the  wall  and  soon  after  we  heard  the 
patter  of  clumsy  feet  down  the  gravel  walk,  and 
the  gate  was  opened  by  a  round  faced  little  maid 
from  whose  eyes  had  not  yet  vanished  the  ex- 
pression of  provincial  wonder.  To  our  query 
she  replied  with  a  curious  little  curtsy  and  with  a 
Southern  rolling  of  her  r's,  that  her  master  had 
not  yet  returned  from  his  morning  promenade. 
Would  we  go  out  to  meet  him  in  the  forest  or 
would  we  come  in  and  wait?  We  elected  the 
former  and  after  many  anxious  directions  the 
little  maid  started  us  on  our  way. 

We  walked  along  the  hot  glaring  street 
for  a  while,  then  branched  off  by  a  narrow 
lane,  between  high  walls,  and  suddenly  we 
were  in  the  forest  where  we  were  enveloped 
in  a  delicious  coolness.  As  we  walked  down 
the  quiet  paths  my  Hostess  talked  of  the 
Poet.  She  told  me  how  bravely  he  had  strug- 
gled in  his  youth,  not  only  with  poverty,  but 
against  his  poetic  inspiration.     He  had  become 


94         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

a  mathematician  and  tried  to  limit  his  soul 
to  formulae,  and  fence  in  his  imagination  by 
geometric  figures,  but  in  vain.  At  last,  realizing 
his  destiny,  he  cast  aside  all  prejudice  and  felt 
himself  free  and  then  his  unimprisoned  soul 
found  expression  in  a  noble  philosophy  clothed 
in  poetic  form,  all  the  more  exquisite  and  perfect 
because  of  the  mental  dicipline  of  his  youth. 
And,  as  his  thought  became  more  free,  it  rose  to 
greater  heights  where  the  sky  is  more  pure  and 
where  the  stars  seem  very  far  apart  the  one 
from  the  other.  There  were  fewer  ears  to  hear 
his  song  and  alas!  fewer  hearts  to  understand. 
His  old  peasant  mother,  though  loving  him 
blindly,  trembled  fearfully  lest  his  soul  be  lost. 
The  world  respected  and  admired  him,  but  those 
who  knew  him  had  grown  into  a  very  small 
circle  until  now  he  ...  At  this  moment  we 
heard  the  cheerful  tinkle  of  a  bell  and  the  sound 
of  tiny  hoofs,  and  then  appeared  at  a  turn  of  the 
lane  a  humorously  small  donkey  with  a 
grotesquely  large  head,  drawing  a  sort  of  wheeled 
chair  in  which  sat  a  very  large  man.  The  first 
effect  produced  by  the  strange  outfit  was  that  of 
a  caricature.  Everyfhing  seemed  to  be  whim- 
sically out  of  drawing  and  so  I  failed  for  a 
moment  to  see  what  later  made  me  forget  every- 


LONELINESS     OF     BLEU -BLEU       95 

thing  else,  and  that  was  the  fine  head  and  won- 
derful face  of  the  man  who  sat  in  the  wheeled 
chair  and  who  was  admonishing  his  ludicrous 
little  steed  in  words  of  mock  appealing. 

When  he  saw  us,  his  eyes  lighted  with  a  cordial 
welcome,  and  he  begged  us  to  forgive  his  dis- 
courtesy in  not  having  been  at  the  house  to  re- 
ceive us  there.  He  said  that  that  abominable 
Friquette  was  to  blame  entirely;  that  she  had 
loitered  along  the  way  and  had  insisted  upon 
nibbling  the  grass  and  otherwise  showing  what 
an  insensate  gourmand  she  was.  Friquette 
listened  to  this  abuse  with  a  meek  and  gentle  air, 
ears  drooping  low,  and  remorse  in  the  carve  of 
her  back,  but  her  eyes  had  an  unrepentant  look 
which  crushed  any  hope  of  permanent  reform. 

We  walked  back  beside  the  queer  vehicle  chat- 
ting of  the  bright  morning,  of  the  beauties  of  the 
forest  and  of  friends  from  whom  we  bore  mes- 
sages to  the  Poet.  Friquette  drew  the  chair  past 
the  iron  gate,  up  the  gravel  walk,  and  through  the 
door  of  the  villa,  down  the  passage  and  into 
the  large  sunny  room  which  served  as  salon  and 
dining  room.  Here  the  Poet's  sister  came 
bustling  in  and,  after  greeting  us,  hastily  unhar- 
nessed Friquette  from  the  chair  and  sent  her  out 
into  the  garden.     While  she  was  doing  this  I  had 


96        A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

time  to  note  the  startling  likeness  and  unlikeness 
between  brother  and  sister.  They  both  had  large 
frames  and  strong  features.  But  his  features 
had  been  softened,  spiritualized  and  transfigured 
by  the  great  thoughts  which  they  constantly 
reflected,  and  his  expression  was  illumined  by 
the  inner  light  of  his  generous  soul,  while  the  very 
helplessness  of  his  big  body  emphasized  the  em- 
pire of  his  intelligence.  Her  frame,  on  the 
contrary,  had  housed  a  little  mind  which  could 
grasp  only  the  edge  of  things,  could  see  nothing 
but  the  surface,  and  her  face  had  grown  sharp 
and  fretted  and  the  light  had  gone  out  from  it, 
because  of  her  inability  to  see  any  meaning  in 
life.  At  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me  when  I  first 
saw  them  together.  He,  immobile,  huge,  but 
dominating  and  winning  us  all  by  the  look  in  his 
face  and  the  sound  of  his  voice.  She,  gaunt,  thin, 
active,  jumping  up  to  fleck  off  a  bit  of  dust  here 
or  to  straighten  a  chair  there,  her  strident  voice 
administering  a  sharp  reproof  to  the  anxious 
little  servant,  or  reproaching  her  brother  for  some 
sublime  absence  of  mind.  Yet  she  was  all  he 
had  left  in  the  world  to  care  for  him  in  his  weak- 
ness, and  they  were  bound  together  by  the  ties 
of  blood,  and  he  seldom  saw  any  one  else. 


XII 

Philosophy  and  Poetry 

npHE  Poet  did  not  eat  with  us,  for  already  his 
-*■  illness  had  freed  him  from  the  necessities 
still  common  to  the  rest  of  us.  And  in  this  very- 
isolation  there  was  something  symbolic  of  his 
spiritual  mind.  He  came  to  us  at  dessert  for  he 
might  yet  partake  of  honey  and  fruit,  the  food  of 
gods.  As  though  refreshed  by  the  half  hour  of 
fasting,  his  face  shone  with  a  gentle  gayety  and 
he  was  pleased  to  indulge  himself  at  my  expense. 
So  I  was  an  American  and  I  was  like  all  of  my 
race  full  of  energy.  Was  I  perchance  a  struggle- 
for-lifer?  He  pronounced  the  strange  words 
with  a  whimsical  attempt  to  imitate  the  English 
and  with  the  result  that  I  would  never  have 
known  what  he  meant,  had  I  not  heard  the  term 
before.  And  I  had  crossed  the  ocean  how  many 
times?  Six?  Ah,  that  was  incredible.  Why 
should  one  take  so  much  trouble  to  see  other 
lands  if  one  were  perfectly  comfortable  at  home  ? 
And  his  eyes  twinkled. 

After  dinner  we  went  out  into  the  little  garden 

97 


98         A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

where  it  was  easy  to  roll  the  wheeled  chair,  and 
the  little  servant  brought  us  our  coffee  nervously, 
but  without  serious  accident.  While  his  sister 
knitted  hideous  gray  wool  petticoats  for  a  winter 
which  seemed  infinitely  unpotential  on  this  warm 
sunny  day,  the  Poet,  grown  more  serious,  talked 
of  the  art  he  loved  so  well.  He  touched  but 
lightly  on  his  own  work  but  dwelt  lovingly  on 
the  young  poets  of  the  present,  their  ambitions, 
their  aspirations  and  their  achievements.  He  saw 
much  to  commend  and  his  only  criticism  was  for 
those  who  treated  the  muse  lightly,  for  those  who 
used  their  talent  in  order  to  seduce  the  public 
with  pretty  music,  but  who  gave  no  thoughts. 
Then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  ideas  which,  because 
they  were  so  high  and  lofty,  can  best  find  their 
expression  in  a  form  which  demands  a  clear 
mind,  an  instinctive  sense  of  proportion,  and  an 
ear  that  is  attuned  to  the  finest  shades  of  mean- 
ing. As  he  spoke,  he  seemed  to  go  far  away 
from  us  into  a  region  where  we  could  not  yet 
follow,  and  when  he  ceased,  a  silence  fell  upon 
us  and  in  his  face  there  came  gradually  a  look 
of  unutterable  sadness  and  of  great  lonliness. 

As  we  went  home  my  Hostess  told  me  of  the 
deep  friendship  existing  between  the  Poet  and  the 


PHILOSOPHY    AND     POETRY        99 

Master  and  how,  since  the  Master  had  gone,  he 
had  become  more  and  more  detached  from  the 
things  of  this  world  —  "  much  as  I  have  myself," 
added  my  Hostess  softly  and  as  though  forget- 
ting me.  "  If  it  were  not  for  Germaine  how  gladly 
would  I  go  to  him."  And  her  eyes  took  on  the 
same  look  of  loneliness  and  of  sadness  that  I  had 
seen  in  the  Poet's  a  little  while  before. 

In  the  late  afternoon  when  we  stopped  to  take 
tea  with  Philippe  my  mind  was  still  full  of  the 
Poet  and  his  words,  and  I  waited  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  him  all  about  our  visit.  Philippe 
lives  in  a  charming  little  garqoniere  on  the  top 
story  of  a  house  overlooking  the  broad  Avenue 
de  V  Observatoire.  We  had  to  toil  up  the  five 
flights  of  stairs  but  Philippe's  greeting  quite  re- 
warded us.  He  had  heard  our  coming  and  was 
at  the  open  door  to  receive  us  and  usher  us  in. 
His  sister  had  already  arrived.  She  is  tall  and 
handsome  too,  and  has  a  boyish  way  about  her 
that  delightfully  suggests  a  life-long  and  sympa- 
thetic companionship  with  her  brother.  Phil- 
ippe's tiny  sitting  room  is  full  of  books  and  pic- 
tures and  a  piano.  He  has  improvised  a  shaky 
tea  table  whose  feeble  legs  threaten  to  collapse 
at  any  moment,   especially   when   Philippe  lays 


100      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

his  strong  hand  on  a  cup  or  a  dish  of  cake  re- 
posing upon  it.  Philippe  is  a  perfect  host  and  he 
serves  raspberry  shrub  and  petits  fours  with  reck- 
less hospitality  to  his  hungry  guests.  When  we 
have  been  refreshed  he  takes  me  out  on  a  little 
balcony  from  which  we  look  down  over  the  tops 
of  the  magnificent  row  of  trees  in  the  avenue,  on 
down  to  the  Jardin  du  Luxembourg  which,  from 
here,  looks  like  a  dense  forest. 

As  we  stood  there,  I  told  Philippe  of  the 
Poet  and  what  he  said,  and  how  his  loneli- 
ness of  soul  had  impressed  me.  But  Philippe 
told  me  not  to  pity  him  but  rather  envy 
him,  for  there  is  no  happiness  so  great  in  life  as 
that  of  being  able  to  embody  a  sentiment  or  an 
idea  into  some  material  form,  and  that  no  one 
could  be  really  lonely  who  could  create,  for  at 
any  time  he  could  call  to  him  these  children  of 
his  brain.    Philippe  grew  quite  eloquent. 

"  When  a  man  simply  feels,"  said  he,  "  and 
spends  his  life  in  feeling  without  giving  expres- 
sion to  his  sentiments  in  a  definite  form,  then  his 
sentiment  makes  him  flabby  and  weak  and  he 
grows  less  and  less  capable  of  strong  feeling.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  can  define  it,  face  it,  analyze 
it  and  cast  it  into  a  beautiful  mould  from  which 


PHILOSOPHY    AND    POETRY        101 

he  can  take  it  and  contemplate  it  as  a  finished 
object,  then  his  mind  is  strengthened  and  he  has 
grown  so  that  he  is  now  qualified  for  more  lofty 
experiences.  The  Poet  may  seem  sad  and  lonely 
to  us,  but  it  is  because  we  cannot  follow  him  into 
the  far  country  of  his  thoughts.  If  we  could 
see  into  his  soul,  we  would  perhaps  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  joy  that  comes  from  knowing 
that  one  must  be  lonely  in  order  to  be  oneself, 
that  there  is  a  world  into  which  none  other  can 
penetrate  with  us,  into  which  we  go  unaccom- 
panied, with  firmness  and  with  awe,  knowing 
that  to  desecrate  it  by  another's  presence  is  to 
sell  our  birthright,  to  lose  the  only  thing  that 
makes  us  individuals." 

I'm  afraid  I  was  looking  more  at  Philippe's 
handsome  face  than  listening  to  his  words  for 
I  could  not  quite  follow  him  in  all  he  said. 
I  only  hoped  that  he  would  never  get  that 
sad  look  into  his  happy  eyes  that  I  had  seen 
in  the  face  of  the  Poet  that  morning.  Then 
Philippe  told  me  that  he  had  decided  about 
his  work  on  Pascal  and  I  found  that  more 
within  my  comprehension,  and  we  even  grew 
merry  over  the  doings  of  the  old  time  mystics. 
But  the  view  from  the  balcony  could  not  serve 


102       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

as  a  pretext  for  an  eternal  tete-a-tete  and  Philippe 
remembered  that  he  was  host,  so  we  had  to  join 
the  piano  and  the  books  and  the  pictures  in  the 
tiny  room.  Philippe  and  his  sister  gave  us  some 
music,  he  sitting  at  the  piano,  and  playing  a 
pretty  accompaniment  to  some  of  Verlaine's  ex- 
quisite words,  which  the  sister  tall  and  straight, 
sang  in  a  clear  bird-like  soprano.  Philippe  had 
composed  the  air  and  perhaps  that  is  the  reason 
she  sang  the  song  with  such  exquisite  sympathy. 
At  all  events  it  went  straight  to  my  heart  where 
it  sang  itself  all  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

That  evening  we  were  alone  at  dinner.  Not 
even  the  Patriot  came  in,  and  it  was  well,  for  if 
he  had  I  am  sure  he  would  have  received  short 
shrift  from  la  petite  grand'mhe.  After  dinner 
when  we  were  gathered  about  the  lamp  and  the 
soft  evening  air  came  in  from  the  garden,  the 
hostess  read  us  from  the  Poet's  volume,  dedi- 
cated to  the  Master,  where  one  great  soul  spoke 
to  another  with  perfect  sureness  of  comprehen- 
sion. And  as  she  read,  I  thought  of  the  many 
poets  who  have  been  inspired  by  the  wondrous 
charm  of  nature  and  by  the  outer  aspect  of 
things,  and  of  the  fewer  great  ones  who,  con- 
templating the  great  problems  of  science,  have 


PHILOSOPHY    AND    POETRY         103 

striven  to  solve  the  enigma  of  life  and  have  en- 
deavored to  show  to  others  who  would  rhyme, 
that  there  is  an  illimitable  world  beyond  the 
beaten  paths  already  trod. 

The  Hostess'  voice  is  very  sweet  and  musical 
and  it  almost  silenced  that  other  refrain  that  I 
had  heard  in  the  afternoon,  but  not  altogether. 
And  I'm  afraid  my  last  thoughts  as  I  looked 
out  upon  the  silent  garden  were  not  of  the  great 
Poet  we  had  seen  but  of  Philippe  and  his  music 
and  I  sang  softly  to  my  garden,  "  Toute  la  vie  est 
la,  douce  et  tranquille." 


XIII 

Dreamers 

'T^HIS  morning  as  I  was  sipping  my  chocolate 
-*-  in  the  garden  (Alphonsine  gives  me  choco- 
late once  in  a  while  as  a  petite  surprise  and  when 
she  brings  it  to  me  I  always  express  successively 
stupefaction,  dawning  comprehension,  and  a 
gourmand's  satisfaction,  which  makes  her  laugh 
delightedly  and  say  that  I  am  very  French.  A 
compliment  which  she  knows  instinctively  will 
please  an  American  young  woman.)  Well,  as  I 
was  sipping  the  luscious  beverage  and  buttering 
the  crisp  bread  with  the  sweetest  of  Normandy 
butter  the  Patriot  came  in.  He  looked  a  little  re- 
proachfully, I  thought,  at  my  luxurious  meal, 
and  said  gently : 

"  I  slept  but  four  hours  last  night  and  have 
breakfasted  on  a  dozen  almonds  and  some 
dates.  " 

"  What  did  you  do  when  you  were  not  sleep- 
ing?" queried  I  sympathetically. 

"  Ah !  there  's  where  I  have  the  advantage  over 
those  who  sleep  and  eat  as  you  do,"  he  said  point- 

104 


DREAMERS  105 

ing  not  disdainfully,  but  sadly,  at  my  steaming 
chocolate  pot.  "  Since  I  have  felt  my  country's 
need  I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  give  her  of 
my  best.  There  is  so  much,  so  infinitely  much  to 
be  done  and  the  time  is  very  short.  I  have 
learned  that  by  determination  one  may  gradually 
accustom  himself  to  less  and  less  sleep  and  to 
little  food.  This  absence  of  physical  indulgence 
helps  one  to  concentrate  the  mind  more  and  more 
on  higher  things.  I  can  now  write  for  ten  hours 
at  a  time  without  taking  food  or  rest.  Last 
night  I  wrote  this  sketch  of  our  great  Mickie- 
wicz."  And  he  showed  me  a  bulky  manuscript 
he  had  in  his  hand. 

"  But  will  a  sketch  of  the  great  Mickiewicz 
help  you  to  liberate  Poland  ?  "  I  asked  with  blind 
feminine  lack  of  logic. 

He  answered  patiently,  "  I  do  not  intend  to 
liberate  my  country  by  the  usual  and  brutal  means 
of  revolution  but  in  a  slower  and  surer  way.  I  am 
going  to  show  the  world  what  a  marvellous  race 
we  are,  what  minds  have  lived  in  Poland,  what 
a  literature  we  have  created,  what  geniuses  we 
have  produced.  I  shall  appeal  to  the  generous 
heart  of  the  world  and  I  shall  say :  '  Would  you 
stand  by  and  let  such  a  people  be  oppressed  ?  '    I 


106       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

shall  make  my  plea  so  eloquent  that  it  cannot  be 
resisted  and  in  time  the  nations  of  the  earth  will 
rise  and  free  us  from  our  chains." 

Into  the  face  of  the  Patriot  came  the  rapt  look 
of  the  Dreamer.  My  chocolate  had  grown  cold, 
but  I  was  ashamed  to  have  even  noticed  it  and  I 
thought  with  compunction  of  my  eight  hours  of 
dreamless  sleep. 

In  a  moment  he  came  back  to  earth  and  said, 
"If  you  would  like  to  read  what  I  have  just 
finished  I  should  be  glad  to  leave  this  with  you," 
and  he  put  the  closely  written  sheets  into  my 
hands. 

As  I  read  about  the  inspired  poet  of  an  en- 
slaved land  the  notes  of  the  caged  merle  rang 
out  gloriously  in  the  morning  air  and  when  I 
at  last  laid  down  the  glowing  eulogy  I  almost 
believed  the  enthusiastic  prophecy  of  the  Patriot : 
that  the  time  would  soon  be  here  when  we  should 
all  be  smuggling  with  the  intricacies  of  the  Polish 
language,  in  order  to  taste  at  first  hand  the 
beauties  of  the  poet's  work. 

From  where  I  sat  I  could  see  the  graceful  apse 
of  the  church  over  at  the  side  of  the  convent 
garden,  beyond  the  low  ivy-covered  wall  that 
separated  us.     It,  too,  was  the  work  of  some 


DREAMERS  107 

Dreamer  and  it  symbolized  the  faith  in  a  Great 
Dreamer  who  gave  us  his  life  for  an  idea.  How 
many  have  followed  in  His  train,  some  for 
greater,  some  for  lesser  things,  but  all  with  a  fine 
abandonment  of  self  and  a  strong  faith  in  some 
dream  of  betterment  or  of  heroism. 

The  day  was  warm  and  the  garden  lent  itself 
more  than  usual  to  musings  but  I  could  not  stay. 
Already  the  morning  was  almost  spent  and  I  had 
promised  to  take  luncheon  with  my  artist  friend 
in  her  atelier  which  was  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  artist  quarter,  on  the  left  bank.  It  is  a  place 
dear  to  all  who  have  once  lived  there.  Gregari- 
ousness,  dirt,  noise,  children,  friendliness,  all 
abound  and,  on  this  morning,  sunshine  also. 

When  after  many  inquiries  I  reached  the 
right  stairway  and  had  mounted  the  proper  num- 
ber of  flights,  I  was  met  at  the  door  and  guided 
by  a  maid  with  a  dubiously  colored  apron  through 
mysterious  passages  where  damp  washings  were 
hung  on  wavering  strings,  to  a  door,  which,  when 
opened,  revealed  a  place  of  light  and  joy.  I 
looked  down  several  steps  and  into  a  large  square 
high  room  filled  with  all  sorts  of  queer  old  things, 
but  flooded  with  sunshine  and  rippling  with 
laughter.    Two  young  Americans  were  there,  one 


108       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

a  joyous-looking,  Titian-haired  creature  with 
dimples  and  an  omniverous  attitude  towards  the 
French  language,  blandly  unconscious  of  the  con- 
trast between  her  raw,  ignorant  yet  charming, 
enthusiastic  optimism  and  the  Old  World  which 
she  had  come  to  conquer.  The  other,  a  more 
angular  type,  was  dressed  in  startlingly  mannish 
style,  even  to  stiff  shirt  and  high  boots,  but  so 
girlishly  pleased  with  the  result  that  you  had  to 
forgive  her  and  try  to  get  her  point  of  view.  In 
contrast  to  these  New  World  types  was  a  sweet 
English  matron  whose  soft  voice  caressed  the  vi- 
brant French  so  gently  that  the  vowels  forgot 
to  make  any  sound  at  all!  Others  came  in  to 
join  us  until  we  were  a  gay  party  of  ten.  The 
lunch  was  brought  in  by  a  diminutive  gargon  who 
struggled  and  beamed  under  his  heavy  basket. 
I  never  saw  a  French  servant  yet  who  did  n't 
mellow  and  grow  happy  and  radiant  over  the 
prospect  of  a  fete  of  any  dimensions  whatever, 
even  though  his  own  labors  were  vastly  increased 
thereby.  And  it  is  n't  because  of  the  possible 
honorarium;  it  is  because  of  their  dear  sociable 
souls. 

We  had  to  wait  a  while  until  the  one  tablecloth 
was  ironed,  and  then  we  all  helped  to  draw  the 


DREAMERS  109 

treasures  from  the  basket.  It  was  a  brave  lunch- 
eon ;  chicken  with  cresson,  pommcs  de  terre,  and 
chonx-flcurs,  not  to  speak  of  delicate  tomato 
salad,  and  ending  with  a  grand  apotheosis  of 
strawberries,  meringues,  and  black  coffee.  What 
mattered  it  that  owing  to  the  lack  of  table-ware 
the  cauliflower  was  suggestive  of  chicken,  and 
left  in  turn,  a  lingering  taste  amidst  the  straw- 
berries; or  that  one  knife  and  fork  had  to  do 
valiant  duty  for  every  course,  for  each  dish  was 
flavored  with  wit,  and  deft  fingers  took  the  place 
of  table  utensils. 

I  looked  around  the  laughing  faces  and  it 
seemed  to  me  I  could  understand, a  little  better 
why  France  held  such  a  fascination  for  artists. 
They,  more  than  others,  have  natures  that  are 
quick  to  feel ;  they  are  susceptible  to  color,  music, 
beauty,  to  all  sensations;  they  can  turn  quickly 
from  grave  to  gay.  Here  in  many-phased  France, 
where  at  times  there  is  the  calm  of  deep  feeling, 
more  often  perhaps  the  movement  and  excite- 
ment of  seething  ideas,  the  artist  feels  at  home, 
here  he  comes  in  to  his  own,  here  he  can  be  him- 
self. Paris  has  the  nature  of  an  artist,  deep 
feeling  underneath  seeming  frivolity,  power  of 
hard  work  suddenly  passing  into  the  volatility  of 


110       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

a  happy  child.  It  is  full  of  dramatic  changes, 
throbbing  with  quick  sympathy,  and  never  stupid, 
never  tiresome. 

No  casual  onlooker  would  guess  at  the  trage- 
dies of  suffering  hidden  for  the  moment  behind 
the  smiling  masks  here  in  this  laughter  echoing 
studio.  The  woman  with  the  clear-cut  features 
who  carries  her  head  high  has  suffered  all  the 
indignities  of  living  au  pair  in  Paris.  Those  who 
have  not  tried  it  know  nothing  of  the  misery  that 
can  be  inflicted  on  a  foreigner  who  barters  her 
precious  time  for  food  and  lodging.  When  a 
fixed  sum  of  money  enters  into  an  arrangement, 
then  time  defines  itself  and  one  stands  upon  an 
independent  footing,  but  when  the  compensation 
takes  the  vague  form  of  bed  and  board,  there  is 
a  change  of  attitude.  The  employee  has  no  foot- 
ing, for  now  the  measure  of  her  work  is  the  meas- 
ure of  her  capacity,  and  that,  to  the  watchful 
eyes  of  her  employer  may  become  limitless.  But 
that  has  all  passed  —  a  week  ago  she  received 
word  that  she  was  to  be  "hung"  in  the  salon  and 
we  all  tell  her  with  friendly  fatuity  that  her  for- 
tune is  made.  The  joy  of  thinking  so  for  a  while 
will  help  her  over  the  hard  places  which  are  yet 
to  come. 


DREAMERS  111 

The  man  with  a  white  face  framed  in  a  mass 
of  black  waving  hair  whom  I  have  just  caught  in 
the  act  of  stealing  his  neighbor's  meringue  came 
over  years  ago  exulting  in  the  thought  of  a  life 
work.  He  had  been  commissioned  to  create,  as 
he  would,  the  most  beautiful  figures  that  his 
eager  fingers  could  mold.  Impetuously  he  had 
left  all  behind  and  trusting  to  an  incorruptible 
legislature  he  gave  himself  with  intensest  ardor  to 
his  work.  Noble  forms  that  gave  pure  outlines  of 
his  lofty  thoughts  filled  his  studio  and  he  lived  for 
months  in  the  happy  world  of  those  who  create. 
Then  came  an  awakening  and  he  was  dragged 
down  to  a  world  of  base  commercialism  and  baser 
fraud.  Funds  had  been  misused,  his  commission 
was  revoked,  the  money  he  had  advanced  in  happy 
confidence  was  a  total  loss  and  he  was  left  to  look 
with  dull  disappointment  at  the  lovely  forms 
which  were  doomed  to  perish,  now  that  hope  of 
immortality  in  stone  was  snatched  from  them. 
After  the  first  bitterness  had  passed,  he  took  up 
his  burden  and  with  characteristic  energy  turned 
his  mind  to  ways  and  means.  Entirely  bankrupt 
as  to  funds  and  almost  so  as  to  faith,  he  never- 
theless rallied  and  just  now  he  is  carrying  on  a 
thriving  trade  in  antiques  with  the  dawning  hope 


112       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

of  being  able  some  day  to  witness  the  resurrec- 
tion of  his  sleeping  ideas. 

The  angular,  bony-looking  Englishman  who 
has  n't  the  hint  of  an  idealist  in  his  loose-jointed 
frame  and  rough  tweed  suit  has  lost  a  fortune  in 
Texas  trying  to  establish  a  sanitarium  for  the 
poor  victims  of  tuberculosis. 

The  large,  hearty-looking  Frenchman  with  the 
kind  brown  eyes  and  Van  Dyke  beard  is  a  Breton 
poet  whose  songs  are  the  echoes  of  the  sea,  hypo- 
critically moaning  at  the  very  threshold  of  the 
home  which  it  has  robbed  of  all  the  singer  holds 
most  dear. 

And  when  I  know  all  this,  I  hear  a  deeper  note 
echoing  in  the  laughter.  They  are  all  Dreamers, 
too,  seeking  to  embody  this  one  thing  in  which 
they  have  faith,  into  some  form  that  may  live 
for  a  little  while  after  them. 


,n 

L      '■'       '1 


XIV 

An  Invasion  of  the  Garden 

WHEN  I  came  home  late  in  the  afternoon  I 
found  that  a  new  element  had  entered  into 
my  garden.  It  had  been  invaded  by  a  happy 
chattering  flock  of  young  women,  with  here  and 
there  those  of  a  certain  age.  (Is  it  indicative  of 
the  relative  politeness  of  the  two  countries  that 
in  America  we  say  a  lady  of  uncertain  age,  while 
in  France  they  say  a  lady  of  a  certain  age?)  The 
Hostess  tells  me  that  a  club  of  young  working 
girls  patronized  by  some  of  the  aristocracy  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  have  the  use  of  my  gar- 
den for  the  afternoon.  At  first  I  resent  it  a  little 
and  so  do  the  birds,  for  they  set  up  a  scolding 

113 


114      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

and  a  twittering  in  the  branches  of  the  tallest 
tree.  They  are  highly  indignant  for  awhile,  but 
presently  the  blackbird's  notes  ring  out  true  and 
clear  and  harmony  is  restored.  At  the  same  time 
a  little,  fat,  overgrown  bird  which  had  left  its 
nest  too  early  and  now  found  itself  sprawling 
helplessly  on  the  ground,  is  tenderly  lifted  up  by 
one  of  the  young  girls  and  placed  in  a  safe  spot 
well  out  of  reach  of  the  claws  of  the  black  cat 
of  the  concierge.  Entire  confidence  is  restored 
by  this  kindly  act  and  the  entente  cordiale  is 
fully  established.  In  the  meantime  more  ladies 
come  and  then  I  hear  some  masculine  tones.  I, 
like  the  birds,  am  excluded  from  active  partici- 
pation in  the  scene  and  I  resolve,  with  them,  to 
view  it  from  above ;  so,  they  from  the  trees,  and  I 
from  my  window,  look  down  upon  the  movement 
and  life. 

Two  or  three  stout,  decorated  gentlemen  have 
been  added.  Every  one  is  gesticulating  with 
glove-encased  arms  and  hands.  Once  in  a  while 
a  patroness  saunters  down  the  gravelled  walk 
Avith  a  young  girl.  I  know  it  is  a  patroness  be- 
cause of  her  majestic  port,  her  long  black  lace 
gown  and  her  nodding  plumes.  I  know,  too, 
because  of  the  pretty,  eager  air  of  the  young 


INVASION     OF     THE     GARDEN     115 

girl  who  is  striving  her  best  to  say  pleasing  things 
to  the  great  lady.  I  notice  that  the  decorated 
gentlemen  remain  ponderously  at  one  side  and 
that  the  ladies  hover  about  them,  or  heave-to 
alongside,  according  to  their  weight.  A  little 
dog  is  now  added  to  the  company,  a  nice,  little, 
well  trimmed  dog,  but  very  active,  who  is  do- 
ing his  best  to  trip  up  the  dowagers  and  the 
decorated  gentlemen.  Now  everybody  sits  down, 
not  without  a  great  deal  of  preliminary  moving 
about  of  chairs.  They  gather  around  the  door 
of  the  large  salon  opening  into  the  garden  and  I 
hear  a  voice.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  oldest  of  the 
decorated  gentlemen,  the  one  with  the  white 
beard.  He  is  making  a  speech,  in  which  he  tells 
the  young  girls  how  fortunate  they  are  to  have 
such  patronesses,  and  to  offset  this,  he  congratu- 
lates the  patronesses  upon  their  happy  choice  of 
protegees.  When  he  is  through  with  his  dis- 
course there  is  a  clapping  of  hands,  and  plumed 
head  nods  to  plumed  head  in  approval.  Then 
after  this  flutter  there  is  quiet  again  and  a  voice 
rings  out  in  lovely  song.  The  merle  is  silent.  Is 
it  from  envy? 

This  seems  to  be  the  formal  part  of  the  after- 
noon, for  as  soon  as  the  applause  is  over,  the 


116       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

party  breaks  up  into  groups,  some  to  talk  with 
the  decorated  gentlemen,  others  to  walk  slowly 
up  and  down  the  paths,  while  a  group  of  young 
girls  gather  about  the  tonncau  and  try  to  throw 
the  metal  discs  into  the  big  frog's  gaping  mouth. 
I  cannot  but  contrast  their  way  of  playing  a  game 
with  that  of  American  girls.  The  French  girl 
takes  up  the  disc  daintily,  laughs  deprecatingly, 
says  witty  things,  and  throws  prettily,  but  oh! 
so  wide  of  the  mark.  She  does  not  really  care 
about  the  mark,  if  only  she  may  be  graceful. 
And  I  think  of  the  American  girl,  muscular, 
brown-armed  and  vigorous,  who  plays  to  win,  and 
does  not  hesitate  to  pit  herself  against  her 
brother. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  flutter  about  the  tonneau. 
A  tall  lady  in  a  trailing  black  gown,  with  a  white 
aigrette  in  her  hat,  is  going  to  play.  It  is  Madame 
la  Duchesse,  and  the  girls  crowd  around.  She 
throws  the  discs  graciously,  as  becomes  one  of 
her  rank,  but  with  entire  disregard  of  their  ulti- 
mate destiny,  which  also  may  be  characteristic  of 
one  of  her  rank.  The  girls  vie  with  each  other 
to  pick  them  up.  Madame  la  Duchesse  bestows 
laughter  and  smiles  and  moves  away. 


INVASION     OF     THE     GARDEN     117 

There  is  a  knock  at  my  door  and  Alphonsine 
announces  callers  in  the  salon,  so  I  leave  my 
window  for  a  while.  The  Professor  has  come, 
and  Madame  Darbray,  who  is  just  now  finishing 
the  fourth  volume  of  her  famous  father's  corre- 
spondence. Pretty,  bird-like  Madame  Rollin  is 
also  there,  who  has  buried  two  celebrated  hus- 
bands in  due  and  proper  succession,  and  has 
piously  and  charmingly  written  their  biographies. 
The  conversation  naturally  turns  upon  the  de- 
funct, and  the  Professor  adds  his  contribution  by 
bewailing  the  fact  that  he  has  not  yet  been  able 
to  find  a  milliardaire  who  will  help  him  to  pub- 
lish his  work  on  Saint  Teresa;  but  millionaires 
interested  in  publishing  the  lives  of  dead  saints 
are  very  rare.  He  asks  me  if  American  million- 
aires are  as  sordid  as  French,  and  I  laugh,  but 
tell  him  we  have  some  who  are  idealists  to  the 
extent  of  founding  universities  and  creating  a 
hero  class.  Perhaps  they  might  be  induced  to 
look  into  the  matter  of  saints. 

When  I  go  back  to  my  window  I  find  that  the 
evening  is  falling  upon  my  garden,  the  birds  are 
finding  their  branches  and  are  twittering  twilight 
confidences;   the  lilacs  fill  the  air  with  a  heavier 


118       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

perfume.  It  is  very  still  and  the  flowers  are 
going  to  sleep.  Once  in  a  while  because  of  the 
stillness  here  I  can  hear  a  shrill  cry  from  the 
street  or  the  sharp  crack  of  a  cabman's  whip,  and 
then  the  quiet  seems  deeper  than  before.  Over 
in  the  convent  garden  a  black-robed  sister  is 
walking  up  and  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  gray 
apse.  From  my  window  I  never  can  see  the 
fagade  of  the  old  church,  only  the  apse,  so  that 
it  seems  wholly  cut  off  from  the  street.  And  I 
like  to  imagine  there  is  no  way  for  the  world  to 
intrude  and  disturb  the  cloistered  quiet. 

The  convent  bell  rings  half  past  seven.  Lucien's 
well-trained  voice  announces  that  dinner  is 
served.  Good-bye,  dear  garden.  When  night  has 
wholly  fallen  I  shall  see  you  again,  but  dimly.  I 
shall  have  to  guess  at  the  forms  of  the  trees,  but 
I  shall  feel  your  fragrance  and  your  freshness 
even  more  than  when  I  can  see  you. 


XV 

Dramatic  Reflections 

ONE  morning  at  our  midday  dejeuner  la  petite 
grand'mere  said,  somewhat  with  the  air  of 
announcing  a  calamity :  "  Mademoiselle  Anna 
arrives  to-day."  Anna  is  the  Patriot's  eldest 
daughter,  and  some  days  before  he  had  told  us 
that  he  thought  she  might  spend  a  week  in  Paris 
on  her  way  to  London.  In  reply  to  the  discreet 
but  deft  questioning  of  la  petite  grand'mere  the 
Patriot  had  told  us  that  his  daughter  was  thor- 
oughly emancipated.  We  therefore  expected  to 
see  a  rather  turbulent  young  person  but  we  were 
pleasantly  disappointed  and  instead,  when  we 
all  met  in  the  salon  before  dinner,  we  found  a 
charming,  very  intelligent,  rather  tired  young 
woman,  who  spoke  French  with  a  vertiginous 
rapidity  and  with  a  wonderful  rolling  of  the  r's. 
She  has  four  other  languages  at  her  command 
and  I  know  she  speaks  them  all  with  equal  swift- 
ness. With  all  her  erudition  she  is  afraid  of  the 
sea,  and  is  timid  about  travelling  alone;  so  she 
possesses  some  feminine  traits  which  make  us  feel 
that  after  all  she  is  one  of  us. 

119 


120      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

The  Hostess  received  her  with  the  gracious 
cordiality  that  she  always  shows.  La  petite 
grand'mere  asked  her  about  the  trip  from  Cra- 
cow and  by  the  time  we  went  to  the  dinner- 
table  we  were  on  the  friendliest  terms.  It  was 
decided  by  the  Hostess'  sweet  insistence  that 
Anna  should  remain  at  the  House  of  the 
Garden  during  her  week's  stay  and  the  Patriot 
forgot  his  obligations  to  his  country  long  enough 
to  express  heartfelt  gratitude.  Among  other 
things  she  wished  to  see,  Anna  expressed  a  de- 
sire to  go  to  the  theatre  as  often  as  possible; 
so  we  planned  a  regular  orgy  of  dramatic  dissi- 
pation. We  talked  it  over  at  dinner  the  evening 
she  arrived  and  we  were  still  speaking  of  it  when 
we  were  sipping  our  coffee  in  the  salon.  Philippe 
joined  us  then  and  said  he  would  constitute  him- 
self our  escort  to  the  Comedie  where  they  were 
giving  a  revival  of  "Marion  Delome"  and  we 
would  go  the  next  evening. 

Philippe  came  for  us  the  next  night  in  great 
glee.  Monsieur  le  Directeur  had  given  him 
tickets  for  his  logc  and  we  were  to  go  in  state. 
One  scarcely  needs  a  period  of  faithful  attend- 
ance at  American  theatres  in  order  to  appreciate 
the  finished  work  of  the  French  actor;  never- 


3 

eg 

o 
o 

Hi 
b 
feg 


122       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

theless  such  an  interim  of  feeding  on  husks 
does  add  a  zest  to  the  joy  of  going  again 
to  the  French  theatre.  At  the  Comedie  you  may 
be  sure  that  little  will  change.  You  see  the  same 
elegant  gentlemen  sitting  at  the  bureau,  impres- 
sive in  their  high  silk  hats  and  their  broad  ex- 
panse of  shirt  bosom.  The  same  toy-like  soldiers 
stand  on  guard;  the  same  gaunt  usher  in  shiny 
dress  suit  and  dyed  mustache,  offers  you  pro- 
grammes at  six  sous ;  the  same  bustling  ouvreuse 
takes  you  officiously  to  the  door  of  the  loge  and 
says  in  the  same  wheedling  voice,  "  Un  petit 
benefice,  s'il  vous  plait,  monsieur!" 

The  Director's  loge  is  a  vast  one  with  room  for 
nine  arm  chairs  and  there  is  a  comfortable  little 
withdrawing  room  besides,  where  one  can  retire 
if  one  is  bored  by  the  play.  There  is  also  a  door 
leading  to  the  stage  in  case  of  need. 

It  is  delightful  to  see  a  play  in  the  old,  melo- 
dramatic, romantic  style  full  of  violent  contrasts, 
impossible  situations,  impassioned  love  scenes, 
noble  sentiments,  base  treachery,  light  ethereal, 
darkness  plutonian,  all  served  up  on  a  stage  set 
with  the  most  artistic  and  seductive  scenery,  in- 
terpreted by  the  first  actors  of  the  world,  and 
before  an  audience  weary  of  modern  psychologi- 


DRAMATIC     REFLECTIONS         123 

cal  and  pathological  analyses,  and  in  whose  souls 
are  chords  which  can  still  respond  to  the  thrilling 
music  of  Victor  Hugo's  incomparable  lines.  The 
cast  is  a  remarkable  one.  Madame  Bartet,  won- 
derful in  a  graceful  dress  which  makes  her  years 
seem  a  fantastic  fable,  is  charming  as  the  beauti- 
ful Marion.  Albert  Lambert  fils,  in  sombre  black, 
plays  the  tempestuous  and  sentimental  hero.  The 
settled  gloom  never  leaves  his  handsome  features ; 
his  graceful  figure  always  assumes  a  pose  of 
profound  melancholy,  and  he  is  a  perfect  example 
of  all  those  dear  dismal  heroes  who  die  young 
after  untold  sufferings  which  wring  gallons  of 
tears  from  sympathetic  eyes. 

And  then  Laffemas!  Leloir's  tall  gaunt  form 
when  clothed  in  black  becomes  the  incarnation  of 
all  that  is  sinister  and  his  face  bears  all  the  marks 
of  a  deep-dyed  villain.  Every  time  he  comes  on 
the  stage  with  his  furtive  yet  assertive  stride  we 
feel  the  proper  thrill  of  repulsion  and  disgust. 
And  how  he  makes  himself  hated  by  all!  No 
Complicated  psychology  there,  to  cause  any  strug- 
gle either  in  his  mind  or  in  the  mind  of  the  spec- 
tator. He  is  wholly,  gloatingly,  triumphantly 
bad.  Le  Bargy  makes  us  love  again  the  happy, 
care-free  Saverny,  who  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the 


124       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ideal  of  every  romantic  young  person,  and 
Georges  Berr  with  his  voice  of  haunting  sweet- 
ness makes  a  most  lovable  fool. 

As  one  act  after  another  sweeps  on  to  the  in- 
evitable catastrophe  we  find  ourselves  listening 
with  breathless  interest  and  forgetting  ourselves 
in  the  play.  Even  the  extravagancies  of  Didier 
in  the  prison  courtyard  do  not  evoke  a  smile,  and 
when  the  great  scarlet  litter  of  his  Eminence 
Rouge  passes  along,  we  feel  a  shudder  as  its  cur- 
tains part,  and  the  white  hand  waves  inexorably, 
and  the  cavernous  voice  says,  "Pas  de  grace!" 

Anna  was  enthusiastic  and  on  her  way  home  in 
the  cab  her  r's  rolled  more  eloquently  than  ever 
as  she  expatiated  on  the  thrilling  interest  of  the 
play.  But  now  that  the  glamour  of  the  acting  is 
over  and  the  music  of  the  lines  is  growing  fainter 
Philippe  and  I,  experienced  theatre-goers  that  we 
are,  talk  sagely  of  the  modern  drama  and  how 
superior  its  realism  is  to  the  rantings  of  Victor 
Hugo.  But  all  the  time  I  have  a  secret  fondness 
for  the  romantic,  and  I  wonder  if  Philippe  or  any 
other  modern  young  man  could  love  with  the 
abandon  and  lyric  intensity  of  a  Didier  or  a 
Hernani. 


DRAMATIC     REFLECTIONS         125 

The  next  afternoon  being  Thursday  Anna  and 
I  decided  to  go  to  the  matinee  and  as  she  had 
never  seen  a  Revue  and  I  had  not  seen  one  for  a 
long  time,  we  decided  to  go  to  the  Varieties. 
When  we  took  our  seats  we  found  in  front  of  us 
three  monstrous  hats  surmounting  artificial  hair, 
arranged  in  curious  puffs  and  curls  as  no 
living  human  hair  ever  could  be.  I  mentally  ex- 
claimed, "  How  very  French !  "  And  I  was  about 
to  tell  Anna  that  in  an  American  theatre  such  a 
thing  would  not  be  tolerated,  when  one  of  the 
big  hats  leaned  towards  the  other  two,  and  a 
voice  from  underneath  the  beflowered  brims  said 
with  an  unmistakable  nasal  accent,  "  These  are 
very  nice  seats,  ain't  they  ?  "  I  thought  best  to 
leave  my  little  discourse  on  national  dissimilari- 
ties until  a  more  propitious  moment. 

The  performance  had  n't  been  going  on  very 
long  when  I  felt  sorry  I  had  come,  but  I  com- 
forted myself  by  moralizing  a  little  in  order  to 
counteract  the  effect  of  what  was  going  on  on 
the  stage.  Really  nice  French  people  seem  to 
draw  such  definite  lines  between  what  can  be 
simply  seen  and  heard,  and  that  which  when  seen 
and  heard  is  felt.    They  see  with  the  artist's  eye 


126       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

and  they  hear  with  the  mind  of  a  wit,  things 
which  seem  in  no  way  to  reach  the  moral  sensi- 
bilities. Witty  vulgarities  seem  to  leave  no 
special  bad  taste  in  the  mouth,  while  we  Anglo- 
Saxons  cannot  get  them  out  of  the  mind  for  a 
long  time  afterwards.  If  asked,  they  acknowledge 
that  such  and  such  a  thing  from  a  moral  point  of 
view  is  degoutant,  but  to  them  it  is  evidently  a 
novel  and  rather  curious  idea  to  look  at  it  in  that 
light.  There  is  one  standard  for  things  of  art 
and  of  wit;  there  is  another  for  the  ethical  and 
moral.  The  French  mental  photographic  appa- 
ratus is  furnished  for  each  of  these  standards 
with  films  of  different  sensitiveness,  and  when 
one  impression  is  taken  the  apparatus  is  clicked, 
the  fresh  film  falls  into  place,  and  there  is  no 
confusion  of  images.  With  me,  I  find  that  I 
manage  my  camera  blunderingly  and  I  often 
find  that  I  have  taken  two  pictures  on  the  same 
film  with  disastrous  and  grotesque  results.  Some 
of  all  this  I  tried  to  communicate  to  Anna  on  the 
way  home  but  she  could  not  understand.  She 
had  seen  nothing  but  what  was  laughable  in  the 
performance.  Sometimes  I  almost  wish  that  I 
did  n't  come  from  a  long  line  of  Puritan  ances- 
tors. 


XVI 

La  Petite  Grand'mere 

'T^HAT  evening  there  was  as  dinner  guest  at 
■*-  the  House  of  the  Garden,  a  dramatic  critic. 
All  Frenchmen  are  critics  and  they  delight  in 
the  fine  art,  but  this  guest  was  a  professional 
critic  and  as  such  was  listened  to  with  much  re- 
spectful attention.  La  petite  grand'mere  never 
goes  to  the  theatre  but  always  reads  the  chronique 
thcatrale  in  the  Monday  edition  of  Le  Temps  and 
when  her  conscience  and  her  embroidery  permit 
she  reads  the  latest  plays.  So  vivid  is  her 
imagination,  and  so  keen  is  her  dramatic  instinct 
that  she  often  has  a  better  conception  of  the  play 
than  if  she  had  seen  it  performed.  The  con- 
versation was  more  than  usually  brilliant.  For 
once  the  Patriot  was  reduced  to  comparative 
silence.  He  had  no  interest  in  the  puerile  dramas 
on  a  mimic  stage,  for  he  felt  himself  an  actor  in  a 
great  world  drama,  where  the  heroine  for  whom 
men  gave  their  lives  was  a  lost  country.  So, 
when  the  discussion  waxed  warm  over  an  author 

127 


128       A      GARDEN      OF     PARIS 

a  la  mode  the  Patriot  became  abstracted  and  his 
eyes  seemed  to  gaze  on  mighty  scenes  which  we 
poor  materialists  were  too  blind  to  see.  As  the 
Patriot's  abstraction  grew,  the  vivacity  of  la  petite 
grand'mere  increased.  Philippe,  who  had  come 
in  just  before  dinner  was  served,  with  the  cheer- 
ful announcement  that  he  had  come  to  spend  the 
evening,  drew  her  out  and  encouraged  her  to 
give  her  opinion  of  such  and  such  a  play. 

The  discussion  became  so  animated  that  it  was 
continued  over  the  coffee  and  even  bridge  was 
not  able  to  assert  its  usual  supremacy.  Owing  to 
Philippe's  tactics  the  conversation  soon  became  a 
dialogue  carried  on  between  the  Dramatic  Critic 
and  la  petite  grand  mere.  I  remember  a  great 
deal  that  was  said,  although  Philippe,  who  had 
seated  himself  beside  me,  said  a  good  many  things 
to  me,  sotto  voce,  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
state  of  the  modern  drama.  He  has  a  charming 
way  of  paying  compliments  and  it  is  very  satisfy- 
ing to  have  some  one  notice  your  clothes  and  tell 
you  that  you  are  looking  unusually  well,  when 
you  yourself  are  conscious  of  having  made  a 
distinct  effort  to  look  nice  and  neat.  Of  course 
these  remarks  of  Philippe  distracted  me  some- 
what and  I  ought  to  have  felt  annoyed,  for  I  had 


LA     PETITE     GRAND'MERE         129 


come  back  to  Paris  to  improve  my  mind  and  to 
learn  as  much  as  I  could.  And  it  was  very 
annoying,  when  I  stopped  to  think  of  it,  for  had  I 
not  come  determined  to  put  aside  all  frivolity,  to 
bend  every  energy  towards  carrying  out  the 
ambition  which  had  been  gradually  growing  for 
the  last  two  years,  to  become  a  literary  woman, 
and  not  to  allow  any  distractions  of  the  heart  to 
interfere  with  this  lofty  purpose  of  the  mind? 
And  now  I  was  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  I  was  growing  more  interested  in 
Philippe's  plans  than  I  was  in  my  own,  and  that  I 
would  rather  hear  him  talk  about  his  work  than  to 
listen  to  a  philosophical  discussion  on  the  trend 
of  modern  literary  ideas.  I  felt  that  I  must  make 
an  effort  to  shake  off  this  weakness  and  not  allow 
any  opportunity  to  pass  of  understanding  better 
the  mind  of  the  French  people.  So  I  told  Philippe 
that  we  were  very  rude  to  talk  when  a  Dramatic 
Critic  was  discoursing  and  that  we  must  listen  to 
what  was  being  said  about  the  new  school  of 
young  writers.  To  which  Philippe  answered  by 
a  remark  that  was  so  very  personal  I  could  not 
repeat  it,  but  which  established  a  certain  com- 
parison between  what  a  Dramatic  Critic  was  say- 
ing and  what  /  might  say  that  showed  me  beyond 


130      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

any  doubt  that  Philippe  was  losing  his  powers  of 
discrimination.  Yet  what  he  said  was  very  nice. 
Then  I  tried  hard  to  listen.  La  petite  grand'- 
mere  was  saying  that  the  audacity  of  these  young 
men  who  were  writing  plays  nowadays  was 
astonishing.  Would  they  stop  at  nothing,  these 
Bernstein,  these  Bataille,  these  Coolus?  To  be 
sure  they  were  clever,  marvellously  clever,  and 
you  were  held  by  the  interest  of  the  play,  in  fact 
you  read  it  breathlessly  from  beginning  to  end, 
but  what  did  it  all  mean?  Were  all  the  lofty 
ideas  dead  ?  Did  men  no  longer  feel  tremendous 
passions?  What  had  become  of  the  noble 
language  in  which  noble  sentiments  used  to  be 
expressed  ?  To-day  all  Paris  had  gone  mad  with 
admiration  over  a  play  which  told  how  a  woman 
had  stolen  money  from  her  hostess  because  she 
wanted  to  dress  well  and  please  her  husband. 
A  mere  vulgar  detective  story  where  there  were 
no  ideals,  no  poetic  sentiment,  no  psychological 
analyses,  nothing  but  action.  And  la  petite 
grand'mere  flashed  indignation  from  her  bright 
eyes,  as  she  sat  up  very  straight  and  remembered 
the  great  poets  on  whose  works  she  had  been 
nourished.  As  she  stopped  for  breath  the 
Dramatic  Critic  rushed  in: 


LA     PETITE     GRAND'MERE         131 

"Ah,  yes,  but  Madame  must  remember  that, 
after  all,  that  was  what  the  public  wanted, 
action.  And  had  not  Bernstein  in  "  Le  Voleur  " 
given  a  play  so  well  knit,  so  deftly  constructed, 
where  the  action  passed  from  scene  to  scene, 
from  act  to  act  so  rapidly,  so  inevitably,  that  it 
was  a  masterpiece  of  art?  And  had  not  the 
public,  by  their  enthusiasm,  showed  that  after 
all  that  is  what  they  demanded?  No  moral 
treatises,  no  poetical  fancies,  but  the  excitement 
of  curiosity  and  the  satisfaction  of  having  some- 
thing happening  every  instant  of  the  time?  And, 
Mademoiselle  will  bear  me  out,"  he  said,  turning 
to  me ;  "  Is  not  that  the  kind  of  plays  that  are 
most  popular  in  your  country?  Do  you  not  de- 
mand a  tense  interest,  and  as  you  say  in  your 
picturesque,  strong  way,  '  something  doing '  all 
the  time?" 

I  had  to  assent  meekly  as  I  thought  of  our 
most  popular  plays.  I  wanted  to  protest  and 
make  a  plea  for  the  few  who  still  loved  poetry 
on  the  stage,  but  I  suddenly  remembered  that 
one  of  our  rising  poets  had  given  as  his  only 
offering  a  thrilling  melodrama  and  I  was  silent. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  for  la  petite  grand'mere 
had    not    yet    found    her    breath,    "the    public 


132      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

is  primitive  and  unreflecting.  It  demands  first 
of  all  to  be  interested  and  the  easiest  way  to 
interest  is  to  appeal  to  the  eye,  not  to  the  mind. 
Bernstein,  Bataille  and  the  rest  have  no  higher 
ambition  than  to  attract  and  dazzle  the  public. 
They  have  no  ideals,  no  sense  of  responsibility. 
If  they  teach  anything,  it  is  that  every  one  has 
a  right  to  happiness,  and  that  he  may  get  it  at 
any  sacrifice.  I  am  convinced,"  and  the  Dramatic 
Critic  assumed  his  editorial  air,  "  that  these 
young  men  are  now  suffering  from  an  attack  of 
Nietszcheism.  The  doctrines  of  Nietszche  are 
just  now  becoming  fashionable  among  a  certain 
set  and  those  young  fellows  have  read  him  super- 
ficially and  have  distorted  his  theories  to  suit 
themselves.  They  are  expressing  a  certain  phase 
and  the  public,  easily  led,  are  dazzled  by  their 
brilliance.     Their  work  cannot  endure." 

"  But  what  of  the  young  people,"  said  la  petite 
grand'mere,  "  who  have  their  tastes  formed  by 
such  amoral  productions?  " 

"  Never  fear,"  answered  the  Dramatic  Critic, 
"  You  would  have  no  doubt  about  our  youth  if 
you  could  have  been  at  the  Comedie  the  other 
night   when   the   anniversary   of   Corneille   was 


LA     PETITE     GRAND'MERE         133 


celebrated.  The  seats  were  rilled  with  young 
people.  The  play  that  was  given  was  "  Polyeucte," 
perhaps  the  one  play  of  Corneille's  greater  ones 
least  calculated  to  interest  the  young,  for  how 
can  they  appreciate  the  struggle  between  the 
grace  of  God  and  human  love?  But  I  assure 
you,  Madame,  that  the  interest  was  deep  and  pro- 
found, more  than  that,  there  was  enthusiasm.  I 
wish  you  might  have  seen  those  young  faces 
turned  toward  the  stage,  watched  the  way  in 
which  they  listened  to  some  noble  passage,  and 
that  you  could  have  heard  the  spontaneous  bursts 
of  applause  at  the  close  of  a  tirade  and  the  air  of 
conviction  with  which  the  young  voices  said,  'Ah! 
que  c'est  beau!'  As  long  as  our  young  people 
can  appreciate  the  great  writers  of  our  Age  of 
Gold  they  will  never  feel  but  a  passing  fancy  for 
what  is  unworthy  and  merely  sensational  in  litera- 
ture." 

La  petite  grand' mere's  eyes  sparkled  and  she 
said,  "  You  are  right  and  we  must  see  to  it 
that  we  teach  our  little  ones  to  love  the  best. 
They  will  never  be  quite  disloyal  to  what  they 
have  learned  at  their  mother's  knee." 

I  thought  of  an  incident  which  had  happened 


134       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

to  the  seven-year-old  great-grandson  of  la  petite 
grand' mere  and  I  almost  expected  to  hear  her  tell 
it  here.  But  la  petite  grand' mere  never  makes  an 
exhibition  of  the  cleverness  of  members  of  her 
family  and  she  resisted  the  temptation,  if  tempta- 
tion it  was,  to  tell  it.  I  respected  her  feeling  suffi- 
ciently not  to  ask  her  for  it,  but  I  told  Philippe 
how  the  father  and  mother  had  taken  the  small 
Paul  to  see  Buffalo  Bill  and  how  when  a  certain 
fierce  warrior  seemingly  drags  his  victim  around 
the  ring  Paul  was  seen  with  great  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks.  His  mother,  alarmed,  asked  him 
what  the  matter  was,  and  he  replied  that  it  made 
him  think  of  Hector  dragged  around  the  walls  of 
Troy.  I  wonder  how  many  seven-year-old  Ameri- 
cans have  a  distinct  idea  of  Hector  —  much  less 
could  weep  over  his  misfortune? 

We  were  later  than  usual  in  breaking  up  this 
evening  for  the  modern  drama  had  proved  very 
absorbing.  The  Patriot  had  taken  his  leave  very 
early  and  poor  little  Anna  had  lost  her  vivacity 
and  was  plainly  sleepy.  The  Hostess  had  been 
knitting,  adding  a  word  only  from  time  to  time, 
while  my  mind  had  wandered  more  than  once 
from  the  discussion.  I  was  grateful  to  the 
Dramatic  Critic  for  his  eloquence.     It  had  quite 


LA     PETITE     GRAND'MERE         135 

aroused  the  youth  of  la  petite  grand'mere;  and 
then  Philippe  had  to  stay  until  the  guest  of  honor 
left. 

There  was  a  breeze  blowing  when  I  looked  out 
into  my  garden  and  the  trees  whispered  secrets  to 
me  that  made  me  feel  quite  unreflectingly  happy. 
And  I  leaned  over  my  balcony  rail  a  long  time  and 
felt  the  soft  night  air  of  France  about  me  like  a 
caress.  How  dear  to  me  were  all  these  in  the 
House  of  the  Garden ! 


XVII 

The  Garden  after  a  Storm 

/  I  MRED  we  sometimes  come  upon  a  cool  and 

quiet  place, 
With  friendly  forest  trees  enclosed  about, 
Where  soft  dead  leaves  lie  thickly  strewn 
Close  pressed  to  earth,  who,  silent,  wept  their 

fall, 
Then   took   them   back   to   her   great   mother 

heart. 
Like  them  we  gently  lay  us  down 
And  seek  to  feel  a  quickening  throb  of  life. 

136 


AFTER     A     STORM  137 

We  see  around  us  in  the  twilight  gloom 
Vague  outlines  of  colossal  forms. 
Faint  shadows  of  ethereal  thoughts. 
We  hear  close  to  us  in  the  purple  air 
Faint  echoes  of  mysterious  music, 
And  the  far  off  voice  of  sobbing  passion. 

The  heart's  loud  throbbing  well  nigh  chokes 

The  cry  that  rises  to  our  lips. 

A  hot  mist  blurs  the  vision,  for  at  last 

The  formless  longings  and  unuttered  songs 

Imprisoned  long  within  our  soul 

Shall  be  made  manifest ! 

With  pulsing  joy  and  eager  haste  we  strive 
To  seize  the  forms,  that  vanish  at  our  touch. 
We  strain  the  ear  to  hear  again  the  harmonies 
That  die  away  in  thread  like  notes. 
And  Nothingness  sits  there  in  black  and  mock- 
ing silence. 
And  laughs  to  think  how  many  forms  he  may 
take  on. 

This  is  just  about  the  way  I  felt  one  morning 
as  I  sat  at  my  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
garden.  There  had  been  a  storm  the  night  be- 
fore and  the  heavy  rain  had  cruelly  beaten  the 


138       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

lilac  bushes  until  their  blossoms  lay  strewn  on 
the  ground.  The  leaves  in  the  flower  buds  were 
bespattered  with  mud  and  the  petals  of  the 
geraniums  were  torn.  The  sky  was  clean  washed 
and  very  blue,  and  the  sun  was  shining  in  an 
unusually  brilliant  way  as  though  to  divert  one's 
mind  from  the  ravages  committed  during  the 
night.  But  my  flowers  were  gone  and  I  mourned 
for  them  in  the  bright  sunlight.  They  had 
scarcely  reached  their  full  beauty  when  the  storm 
that  was  their  undoing  came. 

All  through  the  spring  days  and  for  many 
weeks  and  months  before,  I  had  been  seeking 
restlessly  to  solve  the  bothersome  problem  that 
is  given  in  one  form  or  another  to  each  one  of 
us  to  puzzle  over.  It  seems  very  strange  that 
so  many  of  us  have  to  seek  so  blindly  and  some- 
times so  feverishly  for  a  purpose  in  life.  Why 
should  n't  we  be  given  a  purpose  quite  definitely 
and  clearly  along  with  eyes  and  ears  and  other 
indispensable  accessories  to  human  movement? 
I  had  never  been  able  to  get  very  much  help  on 
the  subject,  but  I  was  always  firm  in  my  resolve 
to  be  independent,  to  live  my  own  life  and  leave 
my  own  individual  impress  on  whatever  I  did, 
however  modest  that  work  might  be.     The  year 


AFTER     A     STORM  139 

of  society  after  college  had  been  very  engross- 
ing, very  exciting.  It  was  beautiful  to  have 
flowers  and  parties  and  love  made  to  one,  but 
when  it  was  over  I  found  that  really  nothing  had 
been  done.  I  wasn't  even  engaged,  which 
seemed  to  disappoint  the  family.  Settlement 
work  and  charity  entertainments  the  next  year 
seemed  to  be  a  little  more  worth  while,  but  I 
soon  found  that  they  were  being  tried  as  a 
panacea  for  various  ailments  by  so  many  others 
that  I  lost  interest. 

Then  came  the  year  abroad.  I  had  intended 
following  the  usual  beaten  track,  but  I  had  met 
the  Enthusiast  on  the  steamer  and  he  had  told 
me  of  the  joys  of  student  life  in  Paris,  of  the 
vast  learning  of  the  Master,  of  the  inspiration 
of  his  teaching,  and  I  had  persuaded  my  gentle, 
ease-loving  elderly  cousin  twice  removed,  to 
settle  down  with  me  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  The 
Enthusiast  had  become  my  Mentor,  and  he 
had  pointed  out  to  me  so  many  pleasant  paths 
of  learning  that  I  shall  ever  feel  for  him  a 
glow  of  gratitude.  At  that  time  it  seemed 
very  easy  to  decide  to  write  and  at  the  end  of 
my  happy  year  I  had  gone  home  full  of  ideas, 
but  alas!  my  family  and  my  friends  laid  hands 


140       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

upon  me  and  I  found  the  mornings  slipping  by 
with  alarming  quickness.  The  mornings  that  I 
had  fondly  imagined  would  be  spent  in  intel- 
lectual labor,  were  frivolled  away  on  riding,  on 
tennis,  on  dressmakers.  I  found  that  no  one 
would  take  me  seriously,  and  I  began  to  feel  the 
possible  ludicrousness  of  taking  myself  seriously. 
But  it  was  very  baffling,  and  the  purpose  in  life 
which  for  a  brief  space  had  almost  materialized, 
turned  again  into  impalpable  mist.  Then  I  had 
a  luminous  moment  when  I  saw  quite  clearly  that 
if  I  was  to  accomplish  anything  I  must  get  away 
from  all  the  entanglements  of  family  and  friends 
and  put  myself  where  I  would  have  every  oppor- 
tunity of  accomplishing  something,  if  there  was 
anything  in  me  at  all.  I  would  give  myself  a 
chance  to  say  something,  if  I  had  anything  to 
say.  I  would  put  myself  again  in  the  old  in- 
spiring environment  and  listen  to  the  voices. 
Alas !  now  that  this  was  accomplished,  now  that 
I  was  here,  I  felt  eager,  enthusiastic,  receptive. 
I  almost  heard  the  heavenly  music  but  when  I 
tried  in  turn  to  form  something  of  what  I  felt 
and  heard,  I  found  my  hand  powerless  and  my 
brain  a  blank.  I  perhaps  ought  not  to  say  a 
blank,  but  the  images  that  came  there  were  un- 


AFTER     A     STORM  141 

bidden,  and  for  my  purpose  it  might  better  far 
have  been  a  blank. 

So  this  morning  as  I  went  back  over  the  short 
years  and  looked  into  the  garden  I  saw  in  the 
deflowered  lilacs  the  sad  confirmation  of  my 
own  discouragement.  And  yet,  so  many  women 
had  accomplished  great  things.  There  was 
Madame  Vancourt,  whose  virile  grasp  of  subjects 
and  clear  and  charming  style  had  opened  a  dis- 
cussion more  or  less  serious  as  to  the  wisdom 
of  admitting  women  among  the  Immortals.  She 
stood  among  the  foremost  writers  of  France 
to-day.  Then  there  was  charming  Madame 
Roger,  who  wrote  with  equal  grace  in  two  lan- 
guages, and  whose  dainty  pen  did  not  hesitate 
to  attack  such  a  subject  as  Literary  Ideas  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century.  There  was  dear,  friendly 
Madame  Bertrand,  who  spent  all  her  mornings 
with  her  pen,  and  whose  translations  are  a  work 
of  art ;  and  my  gentle  Hostess  herself,  who  delves 
deep  in  philosophy  and  has  made  more  than  one 
abstruse  English  work  clear  to  French  readers. 
What  had  given  them  their  power?  Was  it  a 
larger  meed  of  talent,  or  the  gift  of  concentra- 
tion, or  a  source  of  inspiration  that  was  hidden 
from  me? 


142       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Some  days  before,  Madame  Vancourt  had  sent 
me  word  that  I  might  come  to  see  her  and  I  had 
gone  with  outward  delight  and  inward  trepida- 
tion, for  she  is  a  very  great  person  and  great 
in  the  way  that  I  should  like  to  be,  hence  I  felt 
very  small  and  insignificant  and  was  grateful  for 
the  presence  of  my  gentle  Hostess,  who  went 
with  me.  Madame  Vancourt  lives  very  modestly 
in  a  third-floor  apartment.  A  quiet  little  maid 
received  us  silently  and  conducted  us  through  a 
narrow  dark  hall  to  a  door  which,  when  opened, 
revealed  the  salon.  Madame  Vancourt  was 
seated  in  a  high-backed  arm  chair  near  her 
writing  desk,  which  had  been  scrupulously 
cleared  off  for  her  receiving  day,  and  it  looked 
as  innocent  of  hard  work  as  any  American  lady's 
desk.  Madame  Vancourt  was  dressed  in  black 
satin  with  a  bit  of  lace  at  her  throat.  She  sat 
very  erect  in  her  chair,  not  rising  when  we 
entered,  but  speaking  words  of  welcome  in  a 
far-away,  rather  colorless  voice.  Her  face  is 
very  white,  her  features  rather  masculine,  and 
she  smiles  rarely,  but  when  she  does,  all  coldness 
vanishes  and  you  understand  her  charm.  I  sat 
listening  to  her  conversation  with  the  gentle 
Hostess,  feeling  very  young  and  ignorant  and 


AFTER     A     STORM  143 

inexperienced,  as  I  heard  them  speak  familiarly 
of  this  and  that  great  man,  or  discuss  with  inside 
knowledge  some  great  event. 

As  we  sat  there  the  door  behind  me  opened 
and  some  one  came,  with  a  timid  step,  into  the 
room.  Madame  Vancourt  looked  up,  and  her 
face  was  transfigured  with  a  rare  smile.  She 
said  simply,  "  Come  in,  mon  ami,"  but  her  voice 
had  another  tone.  For  a  moment  the  far  away 
quality  disappeared  and  it  sounded  rich  and  clear 
as  a  young  girl's. 

In  response  to  her  words  there  came  to  greet 
us  a  little  old  gentleman,  white-haired,  some- 
what bent,  with  the  kindliest,  gentlest  face  I 
ever  saw.  He  greeted  us,  then  went  over  to 
the  fireplace  and  spread  his  hands  out  to  the 
blaze.  It  was  Monsieur  Vancourt,  the  husband 
of  the  writer.  He  looked  so  small,  so  self- 
effaced,  so  alone,  that  with  a  word  of  excuse  I 
rose  impulsively  and  went  over  to  take  a  seat 
by  his  side.  Madame  Vancourt  flashed  a  look 
of  comprehension  at  me  that  compensated  me 
for  losing  the  delights  of  her  conversation.  I 
must  confess  that  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  address 
myself  to  the  little  husband  now  that  I  was 
beside  him,  but  some  inspiration  led  me  to  broach 


144      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

the  subject  of  Greek  Art.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause he  seemed  so  un-modern,  so  prior  to  our 
own  century.  Whatever  was  the  origin  of  my 
inspiration  its  effect  was  most  happy,  for  in  a 
little  while  his  effaced  manner  had  taken  on  a 
certain  individuality  and  he  was  talking  with  an 
eloquence  which  transformed  him. 

When  we  left,  my  gentle  Hostess  said  to  me, 
"  Who  told  you  that  M.  Vancourt  was  a  Greek 
scholar?  " 

"  No  one,"  I  answered,  "  he  just  looked  as 
though  he  ought  to  know  something  remote  and 
fine." 

"  Well,  you  entirely  won  Madame  Vancourt's 
heart,  for  her  one  passion  in  the  world  is  her 
husband.  It  was  he  who  taught  her  all  she 
knows,  and  who  has  been  her  inspiration  in 
all  that  she  does.  He  was  a  famous  dilettante 
when  she  married  him,  and  rich  enough  to  in- 
dulge all  his  scholarly  whims,  but  misfortune 
came  and  ill-health.  Then  Madame  Vancourt 
rose  to  the  occasion  and  asking  him  to  teach  her, 
she  gave  herself  up  wholly  to  literary  work. 
We  never  dreamed  in  those  days  that  Marguerite 
would  become  the  brilliant  writer  she  is  now, 
and  but  few  know  or  guess  of  the  days  and 


AFTER     A     STORM  145 

nights  of  ceaseless  toil  that  she  has  spent  in 
perfecting  herself.  She  never  could  have  accom- 
plished anything  had  it  not  been  for  him.  It  is 
his  well  stored,  highly  trained  mind,  joined  to 
her  vigorous  will  and  her  woman's  power  of 
adaptability,  that  have  made  her  what  she  is." 

"  But  why  does  no  one  hear  of  M.  Vancourt?  " 
I  asked,  my  sense  of  justice  touched. 

"  All  who  know  her  hear  of  him.  The  world, 
of  course,  cannot  know.  But  he  has  never  been 
strong,  and  perhaps  he  lacks  that  final  touch  of 
vigor  and  self-confidence  which  enables  one  to 
express  oneself.  She  never  could  have  accom- 
plished anything  without  him,  and  he  never 
would  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  express 
himself.  It  was  their  being  together,  and  the 
sharp  incentive  of  necessity,  which  developed  this 
fruit  of  their  talent." 


XVIII 

Dinners  and  Doubts 

TT  may  have  been  my  respectful  silence  when 
■*-  in  Madame  Vancourt's  presence,  or  my  un- 
conscious encouragement  of  M.  Vancourt's 
eloquence  that  won  me  an  invitation  to  dinner 
not  long  after.  I  accepted  eagerly  and  went  with 
fear  and  trembling  for,  being  an  American,  I 
could  not  get  over  the  little  thrill  of  awe  that 
the  thought  of  meeting  the  intellectually  great 
always  gave  me.  My  hostess  received  me 
graciously.  She  looked  whiter  than  ever  and 
very  tall,  but  she  had  more  warmth  in  her 
manner  than  usual  and  her  rare  illuminating 
smile  came  oftener.  Her  husband  was  gently 
self-effaced.  When  we  were  seated  at  table  I 
looked  about  to  get  an  impression  of  the  guests. 
Next  to  the  hostess  sat  the  genial  old  bachelor, 
Monsieur  Maillard,  whom  all  Paris  knows,  beam- 
ing on  every  one,  smiling,  effervescent,  his  rosy 
cheeks  and  bright  eyes  protesting  against  the 
evidence  of  his  whitening  beard  and  hair. 
Opposite  him  sat  the  authority  on  Latin  litera- 

146 


DINNERS    AND    DOUBTS     147 

ture,  Monsieur  Gaspard,  whimsically  humorous, 
inveighing  against  elevators  and  automobiles,  and 
suggesting  that  Edward  VII  be  asked  to  come 
and  reign  in  France  so  as  to  put  an  end  to  labor 
troubles.  Then  there  was  Madame  Delpit,  tall 
and  handsome  in  her  velvet  dress,  with  snowy- 
shoulders  and  head  rising  above  the  soft  black- 
ness of  her  gown.  She  was  as  animated  as  she 
was  handsome,  and  had  the  elegant  poise  that 
comes  from  years  of  reigning  by  the  right  of 
wit  and  beauty.  When  she  spoke,  the  rest 
listened.  Even  the  Latin  authority  stopped  his 
bantering  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say.  In 
sharp  contrast  to  these  were  the  young  Ameri- 
can representative  of  a  Boston  publishing  firm, 
and  his  pretty  sister.  He,  tall,  smooth-faced, 
a  little  ill  at  ease  because  of  his  unconquered 
French,  but  quite  well  bred.  But  it  was  cur- 
ious to  notice  how  his  lack  of  movement  made 
him  seem  stiff  and  unexpressive  among  these 
gesticulating  Frenchmen.  His  sister,  exceed- 
ingly pretty,  with  that  wayward,  irregular  pretti- 
ness  one  sees  so  often  in  Americans,  blonde  curly 
hair,  brown  eyes,  tip-tilted  nose,  decided  chin, 
lovable  mouth,  and  dimples  coming  and  going. 
There  were  numberless  courses  and  much  gay- 


148      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ety,  so  the  time  at  table  did  not  seem  long.  The 
soupe  veloutee  aux  champignons  was  followed 
graciously  by  sole  frite  upon  whose  tail  came 
quickly  a  delicious  poulet,  and  scarcely  had  its 
bones  been  picked  when  the  roti  came  hardily 
on,  to  be  hurried  away  by  the  crisp  rustling  of 
the  Russian  salad  and  an  aristocratic  foie  gras  in 
jelly.  Then  came  cooling  ices  and  strawberries, 
fruits  and  cakes  with  petits  fours,  a  discretion. 
All  these  delectable  viands  were  made  even  more 
piquant  by  the  conversational  sauce  which  accom- 
panied each  course.  Sometimes  all  were  talking 
at  once  and  then  the  bon  mots  fell  so  thick  that 
every  one  who  had  ears  to  hear  had  a  chance  to 
laugh.  At  other  times  one  would  dominate  and 
when  he  realized  that  he  was  being  listened  to 
by  the  rest  he  would  unconsciously  assume  certain 
elegancies  of  expression,  his  wit  would  become 
more  elaborate  and  he  would  be  utterly  in  his 
element.  Later  when  we  went  into  the  salon 
where  the  men  accompanied  us  and  did  not 
abandon  us  immediately  afterwards  we  were  still 
not  left  in  peace,  but  were  followed  by  reminders 
that  the  feast  was  not  yet  over.  Here  we  were 
cajoled  by  black  coffee  and  opalescent  liqueurs. 
We  had  scarcely  overcome  the  immediate  effects 


DINNERS    AND    DOUBTS     149 

of  these  when  tea  and  other  mild  decoctions  were 
brought  in  and  the  consumption  of  these  was  the 
signal  for  departure. 

All  through  the  evening  I  had  studied  my 
hostess,  for  her  white,  strong  face  exerted  a 
singular  fascination  over  me.  I  noticed  that  she 
turned  her  glance  very  often  towards  her  hus- 
band, and  that  there  passed  between  them  a 
look  of  perfect  comprehension.  When  she  was 
appealed  to  for  an  opinion  on  some  abstruse 
question  she  would  answer  in  the  calm,  decisive 
tones  of  her  white  voice,  always  cleverly  and 
always  to  the  point;  then  her  eyes  would  seek 
those  of  Monsieur  Vancourt,  and  she  would  say 
with  her  illuminating  smile,  "  Is  it  not  so,  mon 
ami? "  and  he  would  answer,  u  Perfectly,  per- 
fectly," but  seldom  add  more.  He  seemed  to  be 
the  inspiring  power,  and  she  the  means  of  ex- 
pressing the  ideas  which  did  not  always  originate 
in  her. 

"  The  best  thought  and  the  best  work  is  that 
which  has  a  dual  origin,"  said  Philippe  when  I 
was  discussing  Madame  Vancourt  and  her  hus- 
band with  him  afterwards.  (That  is  a  feature  I 
don't  like.  Every  one  says  Madame  Vancourt 
and  her  husband,  as  though  he  were  an  after- 


150      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

thought.  I  believe  in  full  credit  being  given  to 
the  woman,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  to 
advertise  it  in  an  offensive  way.)  "  They  are  a 
wonderful  example,"  continued  Philippe,  "  of 
how  two  people  may  work  together  in  perfect 
harmony  and  produce  much  finer  results  than 
if  they  were  alone.  Madame  Vancourt  has  un- 
doubtedly great  ability,  but  who  knows  how  much 
of  the  grace,  of  the  subtlety,  and  of  the  color,  is 
due  to  him,  while  I  am  convinced  that  the  charm 
of  her  work  is  born  of  their  mutual  love  and 
understanding." 

By  the  way,  I  kept  wishing  all  the  time  I  was 
at  Madame  Vancourt's  that  Philippe  had  been 
there,  for  then  I  would  have  had  the  opportunity 
I  wanted,  to  compare  him  face  to  face  with  an 
American.  It  is  n't  quite  fair  to  judge  him  with- 
out actual  objects  of  comparison.  When  I  com- 
pare him  with  all  other  Frenchmen  he  is  very 
much  their  superior  and  he  is  much  nicer  than 
many  Americans  I  have  known.  I  wonder  how 
he  would  compare  with  my  Boston  cousins?  Bob 
has  just  finished  his  graduate  course  at  Harvard 
and  is  still  insufferable.  When  I  see  him  I  am 
always  reminded  of  that  line  describing  Saint 
Juste. 


DINNERS    AND    DOUBTS     151 

II  porte  sa  tete  comme  le  saint  sacrement. 

And  I  know  Bob  considers  his  head  the  sacred 
depository  of  all  learning  and  it  must  n't  be 
joggled  for  fear  some  of  it  will  spill  over.  As 
for  Ralph,  he  is  so  cram-full  of  athletics  that 
you  can't  get  an  intelligible  word  out  of  him,  and 
all  he  can  discuss  is  the  superiority  of  the  East 
over  the  West  in  foot-ball,  and  everything  else. 
Once  I  tried  to  talk  to  him  about  foreign  culture, 
but  he  said  such  disagreeable  things  about 
Frenchmen  that  I  would  n't  listen  to  him.  I 
think  many  of  our  American  young  men  are 
very  narrow-minded.  They  are  nice,  jolly, 
brotherly  playmates,  but  they  care  much  more 
about  success  in  athletics  and  business  than  about 
poetry.  Now  Philippe  is  what  I  would  like  a 
brother  of  mine  to  be,  if  I  had  one,  —  big,  strong, 
a  good  rider,  a  fine  shot,  fond  of  tennis,  despising 
golf,  and  yet  able  to  talk  with  you  about  ideals, 
and  not  only  never  bored  with  poetry,  but  able 
to  write  it  himself. 

Lately  I  seem  to  have  been  thrown  more  than 
usual  among  people  who  have  done  things  in  the 
world  and  my  impatience  of  self  increases.  It's 
a  very  unpleasant  feeling  which  sometimes  be- 
comes physical  in  its  intensity.     I'm  beginning 


152      A     GARDEN     OF    PARIS 

to  have  a  horrid  doubt  that  something  besides 
determination  and  toil  is  necessary.  The  other 
day  the  gentle  Hostess  and  I  went  to  a  sort  of 
literary  tea,  at  least  that 's  what  we  would  have 
called  it  in  Boston.  It  was  at  the  home  of  the 
bird-like  Madame  Rollin,  and  there  were  to  be 
two  very  remarkable  authors  there.  One,  a 
famous  Englishwoman  who  received  fabulous 
sums  for  her  magazine  serials,  and  the  other,  a 
novelist  whom  two  countries  want  to  claim,  and 
who  has  wisely  adjusted  matters  by  adopting  the 
accent  of  one  country,  and  occasionally  allowing 
the  other  to  hear  him  use  it.  There  were  some 
other  people  present  just  as  remarkable,  but  they 
were  French  and  could  be  met  any  day.  How- 
ever, their  presence  had  a  quieting  influence  on 
the  English  lions,  and  they  did  not  seem  to  stand 
out  from  their  background  in  the  conspicuous 
way  they  would  have  done  in  Boston,  and  their 
voices  scarcely  rose  above  a  purr. 

Madame  Rollin  banished  all  possible  heaviness 
and  kept  her  foreign  guests  quite  animated  by 
her  vivacity.  I  overheard  the  Authoress  say  to 
the  Novelist,  "  Marie  is  astonishing.  She  is  as 
young  at  fifty  as  she  was  at  twenty.  It  is  almost 
immoral,  and  a  widow,  too !  " 


DINNERS    AND    DOUBTS     153 

"  Have  you  read  her  last  book  ?  "  replied  the 
Novelist,  "  the  one  she  wrote  before  her  hus- 
band's death?  I  doubt  if  she  will  ever  write 
again  anything  so  delightful,  for  although  her 
husband  was  a  scientist,  he  was  a  great  inspira- 
tion to  her  in  her  literary  work." 

It  seemed  to  me  I  heard  the  same  story  every- 
where. Could  no  great  work  be  done  in  the 
world  unless  the  heart  were  moved  ?  Were  love, 
and  sympathy,  and  understanding,  the  basis  of 
intellectual  activity?  I  didn't  believe  it,  and  I 
resolved  to  ask  the  gentle  Hostess  her  opinion 
after  dinner.  But  while  sitting  in  the  library 
waiting  for  Lucien's  automatic  summons  to  the 
dining  room,  I  picked  up  one  of  the  Master's 
volumes  and  read  its  dedication :  "  To  my  be- 
loved wife,  without  whose  help  and  inspiration 
my  voice  would  have  been  silent."  That  was 
what  the  gentle  Hostess  had  been !  My  question 
had  been  answered. 


XIX 

The  Pilgrimage 

'  I  ^HERE  was  much  excitement  in  the  House 
A  of  the  Garden  one  spring  morning,  for  we 
were  going,  all  of  us,  to  spend  a  week  at  the 
chateau.  The  merle  woke  me  earlier  than  usual 
with  his  song,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  The  sun  is 
shining  for  you,  free  and  happy  creature.  You 
can  go  out  to  the  green  country  while  I  must  stay 
here  in  my  cage;  but  I  have  the  dear  garden  to 
comfort  me,  the  still  and  quiet  garden,  where 
none  come  but  those  who  are  beloved  of  the 
House."  And  when  I  rose  and  looked  out  of  my 
window  the  sun  was  shining  more  beautifully 
than  ever  and  the  garden  sent  up  sweet  perfumes 
of  morning  as  if  to  reproach  me  for  seeking 
anything  more  fair  in  the  world  outside.  The 
garden  and  I  have  a  perfect  understanding,  how- 
ever, and  it  knows  that  if  I  go  away  for  a  while  I 
shall  always  come  back  with  the  joy  of  coming 
home. 

We  knew  that  the  gentle  Hostess  had  planned 
this  trip  as  a  sort  of  pilgrimage.     For  it  was  at 

154 


]^j-,  r&  r^  *f*  -^*v~» 


-^ 


?-A 


*V 


\^/v 


-C^ 


~ b   •'  ^^  u;*-^ 


"-^  ~%-^ 


156      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

this  time  of  the  year  that  the  Master  had  always 
loved  to  go  into  his  Normandy  and  breathe  the 
fresh  air  of  his  native  province.    The  pilgrimage 
was  not  to  be  a  sad  one,  for  only  those  who  had 
known  the  Master  well  were  to  go,  and  who 
could  ever  be  quite  sad  who  had  once  known 
him?    Besides,  we  never  could  feel  that  we  had 
wholly  lost  him,  for  his  strong  spirit  pervaded  the 
circle  of  his  home  still.     So  strong  was  the  im- 
press of  his  personality  that  when  talking  of 
him  I  often  lifted  my  eyes  at  some  slight  sound 
expecting  to   see  him   among  us.     And   so,   in 
starting  on  this  spring  morning,  we  felt  a  certain 
joyous  expectancy,  as  if  we  were  to  join  a  loved 
one,   for   surely  at  the  chateau  which  was   so 
closely  connected  with  him,  we  should  feel  his 
presence  even  more  keenly.    Besides,  it  was  there 
he  had  been  laid  to  rest  and  we  would  visit  the 
hillside  and  the  little  chapel. 

We  had  to  be  at  the  Gare  St.  Lazare  at  eight 
o'clock,  so  Lucien  and  Alphonsine  and  the  cook 
were  here,  there,  everywhere,  preparing  for  the 
early  coffee,  packing  bags,  giving  instructions  to 
the  concierge,  and  getting  the  cabs  into  the  court ; 
so  that  mesdames  should  not,  by  any  failure  of 
duty  on  their  part,  miss  the  train.     Lucien  and 


THE     PILGRIMAGE  157 

Alphonsine  were  to  go  with  us,  for  we  could  not 
imagine  how  a  meal  would  taste  unless  served 
by  him,  and  Alphonsine  was  always  indispensable. 
Soon  we  were  rattling  over  the  stony  streets, 
La  petite  grand'mere  and  the  gentle  Hostess  in 
one  cab,  Germaine  and  I  in  the  other,  with  Lucien 
sitting  up  very  straight  beside  the  driver,  and  in 
the  third  cab  our  little  trunks,  our  big  bags,  and 
all  our  parcels.  We  were  out  so  early  that  the 
streets  lay  asleep  with  all  their  shop  windows 
closed.  Here  and  there  we  met  a  grocer's  wagon 
coming  from  the  Holies,  laden  with  fresh  vege- 
tables, or  a  cart  filled  with  flowers  and  pushed  by 
a  bent  old  woman.  The  street  sweepers  were  the 
only  other  active  ones  astir,  swishing  the  clean 
water  from  the  gutters  up  over  the  pavement 
with  their  long  ungainly  brooms. 

When  we  reached  the  station  we  found  the 
group  of  friends  who  were  to  go  with  us,  already 
out  on  the  quai  by  the  little  toy  cars  that  were  to 
take  us  on  our  six-hour  trip.  There  was  the 
Professor  who  had  been  the  Master's  most 
faithful  disciple,  and  whose  love  for  Saint  Teresa 
and  the  rest  of  the  calendar  was  secondary  to 
his  cult  of  the  one  who  had  helped  him  in  his 
career.     After  the  Master  went  away  his  grief 


158       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

was  the  helpless,  pathetic  sorrow  of  a  child,  and 
he  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  wondering 
pain  of  the  blow.  Then  of  course  the  Patriot 
was  there,  and  for  once  la  petite  grand' mere  low- 
ered her  arms  and  declared  a  truce,  ignoring 
all  puzzling  problems  of  his  attire  or  theories. 
Philippe  and  his  sister  were  there,  too,  for  they 
had  always  been  as  son  and  daughter  in  the 
family.  The  Academician  was  to  come  on  the 
next  day,  and  that  would  complete  our  party. 

We  made  ourselves  comfortable  in  two  com- 
partments and  soon  the  porters  came  along  shut- 
ting the  doors  with  much  slamming.  The  little 
engine  uttered  half  a  dozen  thin,  convulsive 
shrieks,  and  the  toy  cars  rattled  out  of  the  sta- 
tion over  the  tracks,  high-walled  on  either 
side,  and,  finally  escaping  from  them,  made  a 
dash  into  the  green  country,  where  our  road 
was  bordered  by  stiff  little  villas  neatly  kept, 
or  by  tall  poplars,  standing  like  very  thin  grena- 
diers, with  big  green  shakes  on  their  heads. 
Once  in  a  while  we  screamed  past  a  station  where 
we  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  blue-bloused 
facteur  standing  beside  the  Restaurant  de  la 
Gare.  Sometimes  our  engineer  condescended  to 
stop  at  a  city,  where  the  houses  stood  close- 


THE     PILGRIMAGE  159 

grouped,  pressing  around  and  climbing  crowd- 
ingly  the  hill,  on  which  rose  a  majestic  cathedral, 
whose  spires  reached  up  into  the  blue  sky,  as 
though  from  out  the  huddling  mass  of  stone  and 
mortar  some  fine  aspirations  had  detached  them- 
selves to  spring  upward  toward  heaven.  When 
hunger  made  itself  felt,  Lucien  and  Alphonsine 
appeared  at  one  of  the  short  stops  with  baskets 
containing  fat  sandwiches,  tender  chicken,  and 
bottles  of  red  wine,  which  they  consigned  to  our 
care  with  smiling  wishes  for  the  good  appetite 
of  messieurs  and  mesdames.  Their  wishes  were 
fulfilled  and  the  baskets  were  soon  emptied. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  half  away  when, 
with  an  unusually  emphatic  bump,  the  train 
stopped,  too  suddenly  for  comfort,  beside  the 
little  station  which  marked  the  end  of  our 
journey.  The  carriages  from  the  chateau  were 
there  to  meet  us,  and  the  greetings  of  chatelaine 
and  servants  argued  well  for  domestic  harmony 
in  that  household.  As  we  drove  over  the  wind- 
ing road  that  took  us  to  the  chateau,  my  mind 
was  full  of  the  memory  of  my  first  visit  when 
the  Master  was  still  there.  I  could  feel  again 
the  thrill  of  anticipation  with  which  I  looked 
about  me  at  the  little  station,  the  eager  curiosity 


160      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

with  which  I  gazed  on  the  fair  Normandy  fields, 
and  the  quaint  old  village  near  the  chateau.  Then 
how  like  a  story  it  seemed,  to  turn  in  at  the  lodge 
gate  where  the  porter  stood  to  salute  us  gravely : 
to  drive  under  arching  trees  until  suddenly  we 
came  out  into  a  broad  open  space,  where  the 
driveway  swept  up  to  the  chateau;  and  there,  the 
fine  old  building  stood  out  clear  and  bold  against 
its  background  of  trees. 

It  was  all  there,  and  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  per- 
fect satisfaction.  Battlements  and  drawbridges, 
portcullis  and  moat,  all  that  a  well-regulated, 
ancestral  castle  should  possess.  To  be  sure  the 
drawbridge  was  now  always  hospitably  down  and 
it  was  bordered  with  fresh  confiding  flowers, 
while  the  portcullis  had  a  beautiful  brown  coat 
of  rust  on  its  protruding  points  that  never  more 
would  come  clanging  down  in  sudden  alarm. 
And  the  moat  had  not  for  generations  been 
flooded,  except  by  the  rains  of  heaven,  and  was  a 
wild  luxurious  tangle  of  vines  and  roses,  that 
strove  ambitiously  to  climb  up  and  peep  over  the 
edge  of  their  sunken  bed.  To  complete  the  per- 
fect picture,  there  at  his  castle  gate  stood  the  lord 
of  the  demesne,  with  his  lady  at  his  right,  and 
his  retainers  drawn  up  on  either  side.     It  was 


THE     PILGRIMAGE  161 

exactly  like  a  story  book,  and  so  were  all  the 
happy  days  that  had  followed  when  we  wandered 
over  the  Normandy  hills,  to  visit  the  graceful 
ruins  of  some  old  abbaye,  or  when  we  played 
tennis  on  the  terrace,  while  Fifi,  the  dog,  dashed 
down  into  the  moat  to  bring  the  balls  back:  or 
when  we  gathered  in  the  great  lamp-lit  salon  of 
an  evening  and  listened  to  wise  and  brilliant 
words  from  the  lips  of  poets  and  writers.  For 
the  Master  always  drew  about  him  those  who 
found  in  his  wide  knowledge  and  deep  sympathy, 
new  sources  of  inspiration. 

This  time  the  picture  was  the  same.  The  sta- 
tion, the  village,  the  lodge,  and  the  old  gray  castle, 
but  the  central  figure  was  missing.  We  all  strove 
to  be  very  gay  and  not  to  let  the  gentle  Hostess 
know  how  much  we  felt  the  lack,  and  everything 
aided  in  the  kindly  conspiracy.  The  notes  of 
the  birds  were  sweeter,  the  old  gray  walls  were 
softer,  the  perfumed  air  more  caressing,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  Spring  spoke  to  our  hearts  of 
resurrection  and  of  life. 

The  first  evening  was  the  hardest,  but  when 
we  came  up  from  the  big  dining  room  down 
stairs,  we  women  folk  attacked  our  embroidery 
with  ardor,  and  the  men  stood  about  and  talked. 


162       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Then  we  fell  to  playing  cards  and  before  we 
knew  it  Lucien  appeared  with  tea  and  other  calm- 
ing drinks  and  the  dreaded  first  evening  was  over. 
I  suppose  in  our  blundering  human  way  we 
did  not  accept  the  absence  of  the  Master  in  the 
way  we  should,  and  hence  his  spiritual  presence 
could  not  be  felt.  Afterwards  we  remembered 
this  and  as  the  hours  passed  we  knew  he  was 
with  us  more  and  more,  and  the  sense  of  restraint 
passed  away  and  we  no  longer  strove  after  a 
gayety  we  did  not  feel,  but  allowed  the  atmos- 
phere of  content  and  peace  to  enter  into  our  souls. 


XX 

The  Chateau 

THE  first  morning  when  I  awoke  and  went 
to  my  tower  window  I  looked  on  a  scene 
that  almost  compensated  for  the  absence  of  my 
garden.  The  ground  sloped  gently  down  from 
the  terrace  to  the  clear  still  waters  of  the  lake, 
still,  except  where  they  were  rippled  on  the  far 
side  by  a  brook  which  leaped  out  in  cascades 
from  the  cool  shadows  of  the  hillside.  The  water 
rushed  into  the  little  lake  in  a  great  flurry  as 
though  it  had  so  much  to  tell  of  its  adventures 
that  it  could  not  wait  and  was  eager  to  stir  up  all 
the  placid  surface.  But  in  a  ridiculously  short 
time,  its  turbulence  was  over  and  its  babbling 
ceased,  and  it  became  part  of  the  tranquil  waters 
which  lay  undisturbed  except  by  a  falling  leaf, 
or  a  passing  zephyr,  or  when  furrowed  by  the 
stately  motion  of  a  white-necked  swan.  All 
about  the  lake  were  white  spring  flowers  and 
nodding  violets,  and  beyond  rose  the  undulating 
outline  of  green  hills,  melting  into  blue  that  beck- 
oned one  with  the  cloudy  promise  of  new  beau- 

163 


164-       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ties  to  be  revealed,  if  you  would  undertake  the 
quest.  But  with  all  this  before  my  eyes  I  was 
still  loyal  to  my  garden.  It  had  one  added 
charm,  that  of  being  a  secret  place  hidden  in  a 
great  city ;  it  was  to  be  found  only  after  seeking, 
and  nothing  about  it  bespoke  its  presence; 
while  here  the  surroundings  all  proclaimed  aloud 
that  there  must  be  sweep  of  lawn,  gleam  of  water, 
and  far-reaching  vistas  of  hills ;  so  that  when  you 
came  upon  it,  there  was  no  special  feeling  of  dis- 
covery. 

My  room  in  the  chateau  was  the  same  I  had 
before;  a  tower  room  with  deep  window  seats 
and  walls  hung  with  yellow  tapestry.  There  was 
a  tall  canopied  bed  and  quaint  spindle-legged 
chairs.  In  the  walls  were  closets  that  opened 
with  secret  springs,  and  clothes  kept  there,  re- 
newed their  freshness  and  acquired  a  perfume  of 
lavender. 

The  coffee  that  Alphonsine  brought  me  had  an 
added  flavor  because  of  the  foaming  hot  milk 
which  had  a  genuineness  proven  by  the  faint 
lowing  of  the  cows  in  the  distant  meadows.  I 
sat  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  my  window  while 
I  sipped  my  morning  nectar  and  watched  the 
changing  lights  on  lake  and  hills.     All  morning 


THE     CHATEAU  165 

it  was  very  still  about  the  chateau.  Each  one 
had  his  task  to  do  and  the  unwritten  law  of  the 
household  was  that  no  one  should  interfere  with 
another's  independence;  so  we  were  always  left 
undisturbed,  with  that  delicate  appreciation  of 
individuality  which  makes  French  hospitality  so 
charming  and  so  unexacting. 

When  the  luncheon  time  came  at  the  half  hour 
after  midday  we  were  eager  to  meet,  as  well  as  to 
eat,  and  there  was  a  spontaneity  about  both  that 
might  have  been  lacking  if  we  had  had  a  beef- 
steak breakfast  or  unlimited  access  to  one  an- 
other's society.  The  long  windows  of  the  great 
dining  room  opened  out  on  the  terrace,  where 
the  shadow  of  the  tall  trees  always  kept  a  dewi- 
ness, as  of  unbrushed  morning,  on  the  sward 
and  the  vine-filled  moat.  After  luncheon  we 
went  out  on  the  terrace  where  the  easy  chair 
of  la  petite  grand'mere  was  comfortably  placed 
under  the  tallest  tree.  On  a  table  beside  her 
was  her  basket  of  embroidery  ready  for  her 
busy  fingers.  Then  came  Lucien  with  the  tray 
of  fragrant  black  coffee  and  when  we  had 
discussed  it,  the  games  were  brought  out  and 
all  of  us  joined  in  the  famous  tonneau,  where 
marvellous  scores  were  made  and  competition  ran 


166       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

high.  Then  the  gentle  Hostess  arranged  what 
we  were  to  do  during  the  hours  before  the  five 
o'clock,  and  such  was  her  discrimination  that  she 
always  hit  upon  just  the  thing  that  we  had  been 
longing  to  do.  Perhaps  it  was  a  visit  to  some 
old  ruin,  or  to  a  neighboring  chateau,  or  a  drive 
to  the  little  city  where  a  gingerbread  fair  was 
going  on.  Before  we  were  sent  about  our  vari- 
ous pleasure  trips,  the  gentle  Hostess  reminded 
us  that  the  Academician  was  to  arrive  that  day 
and  would  be  at  the  chateau  in  time  for  the  five 
o'clock.  I  was  very  anxious  to  meet  the  Aca- 
demician, for  he  was  the  youngest  of  the  Immor- 
tals and  had  won  fame  in  many  countries  by  his 
songs.  He  had  been  devoted  to  the  Master,  and 
his  poet's  soul  had  reverenced  the  mind  in  which 
profound  learning  had  never  stifled,  but  rather 
glorified,  artistic  ideals,  and  for  whom  the  history 
of  words  meant  the  history  of  humanity. 

Philippe,  his  sister  Juliette,  Germaine,  and  I 
went  to  the  gingerbread  fair,  where  we  had  a 
double  enjoyment,  that  of  seeing  the  wonderful 
array  in  the  booths,  and  of  watching  the  quaint 
Normandy  peasants  as  they  passed  entranced 
from  one  fascinating  display  to  another.  The 
struggle  in  their  minds  between  natural  caution 


THE     CHATEAU  167 

and  curiosity  grew  nearly  tragic  as  they  listened 
to  the  allurements  of  an  attraction  where,  they 
were  assured  by  the  eloquent  "  barker,"  they 
would  see  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  world, 
something  that  they  ought  not  to  miss ;  for  if  the 
ton  Dieu  had  sent  into  the  world  an  armless, 
legless  man,  was  it  not  disrespect  on  their  part  if 
they  refused  to  see  this  manifestation  of  divine 
wrath  ?  But  le  bon  Dieu  had  permitted  this  poor 
trunk  to  learn  marvellous  things,  all  of  which  he 
could  be  seen  performing  for  the  ridiculously 
small  sum  of  five  sous.  Some  younger  ones 
yielded,  overcome  by  the  specious  eloquence  of 
the  pious  showman,  while  the  older  ones  shook 
their  heads  dubiously  and  passed  on  to  the  next 
temptation. 

We  were  so  carried  away  by  the  attractions  of 
the  place  that  we  were  late  in  returning;  so  that 
when  we  arrived  we  found  every  one  assembled 
on  the  terrace  and  well  on  into  the  second  cup 
of  tea.  The  Academician,  as  the  latest  arrival, 
was  the  centre  of  attraction.  He  was  a  small 
slender  man,  very  young  looking,  with  delicate 
features  and  large  eyes.  He  bore  himself  with 
an  air  of  gentle  deference  that  was  very  winning, 
especially  when  he  turned  to  la  petite  grand' mere. 


168       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Indeed,  it  would  have  been  most  unfitting  had  he 
not  recognized  with  the  rest  of  us  that  this  was 
the  hour  when  she  held  court.  She  always  had 
a  charmingly  regal  air,  but  at  this  time  more  than 
at  any  other  did  she  exercise  her  sovereignty  by 
the  right  of  brilliancy  and  wit.  She  had  had  her 
refreshing  nap,  and  her  conversation  was  more 
sparkling,  her  repartee  quicker  than  ever.  The 
spontaneous  homage  that  was  paid  her  exhila- 
rated her  and  we  all  became  her  willing  vassals. 
I  think  I  never  knew  any  one  who  so  clearly 
made  manifest  in  herself  the  relations  of  mind 
and  body.  When  young  she  had  been  very  beau- 
tiful, and  her  body  had  then  been  the  dwelling 
place  of  a  young  and  undeveloped  soul,  but,  as 
the  years  passed  her  mind  grew;  intelligence  of 
an  unusual  quality  burned,  and  the  light  from 
within  gradually  transformed  the  features,  which 
Time  was  touching  with  his  withering  hand,  until 
the  dwelling  seemed  to  become  a  mere  trans- 
parent covering  for  the  brilliant  mind  that  had 
been  developing  in  a  shelter,  whose  protecting 
beauty  it  now  no  longer  needed,  for  its  own  glow 
was  sufficient  loveliness. 

After  the  tea  Philippe  and  the  Professor  chal- 
lenged  Juliette   and   me   to   a   game   of   tennis. 


THE     CHATEAU  169 

Juliette  is  tall  and  dark  and  just  now  is  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  Anglomania  induced,  so  her 
affectionate  relative  says,  by  the  attentions  of  a 
young  English  officer.  Whatever  may  be  the 
cause,  the  result  of  the  malady  is  that  she  dis- 
figures her  pretty  black  hair  by  wearing  a  fringe 
and  stiffens  her  slender  neck  by  extraordinarily 
high  collars.  Her  Anglomania  has  affected  her 
beneficially,  however,  in  that  she  cultivates  all 
athletic  sports  and  is  a  good  tennis  player.  We 
get  along  famously  together  and  she  tells  me  a 
great  deal  about  Philippe.  I  think  it  always 
speaks  well  for  a  man's  character  when  his  sister 
can  be  enthusiastic  about  him  after  several  years 
of  companionship. 

The  Professor  is  a  little  slow  and  almost  too 
polite  to  play  such  a  game,  for  he  insists  upon 
stopping  to  pick  up  all  Juliette's  balls  for  her 
and  handing  them  to  her  personally,  which  takes 
a  good  deal  of  valuable  time.  Despite  these  ener- 
vating courtesies  the  game  was  soon  under  way 
and  grew  so  tense  that  conversation  was  restricted 
to  the  terse  expressions  of  mixed  French  and 
English,  and  nothing  was  heard  but,  "  £tes  vous 
pretef  "—"  Oui,  play  "— "  Trente,  love  "—"Va, 
Fiji,  vite  cherche  la  balle  dans  la  fosse !  " 


170       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

The  lengthening  shadows  of  the  tall  trees 
warned  us  at  last  that  we  must  go  to  our  rooms 
and  dress  for  dinner.  There  were  certain  rigid 
laws  in  the  chateau  household  and  one  was  that 
at  exactly  half -past  seven  we  must  gather  together 
in  the  salon,  and  five  minutes  thereafter  we  would 
trail,  two  by  two,  down  the  great  stairway  to  the 
dining  room  below.  The  only  feeling  of  nerv- 
ousness I  ever  experienced  in  this  gracious  home 
was  at  the  thought  of  some  time  not  being  ready, 
and  having  to  walk  down  the  staircase  and  enter 
the  dining  room  all  alone. 

The  dinner  was  very  gay,  for  the  Patriot  and 
the  Academician  became  engaged  in  a  lively 
discussion  as  to  the  value  of  epics  in  the  de- 
velopment of  a  nation.  It  was  perhaps  because 
of  the  discussion  that  when  we  were  in  the 
salon  after  dinner  we  begged  the  youngest  Aca- 
demician to  tell  us  of  a  pilgrimage  he  once 
made  to  Roncevaux  with  the  Master,  when  they 
went  to  visit  the  scenes  of  great  Roland's 
struggle  and  death.  As  he  recounted  simply 
but  eloquently  the  events  of  those  few  days, 
when  they  lived  with  departed  heroes,  I  re- 
called the  tribute  which  this  youngest  Academi- 
cian  had   paid   to   the   memory  of   the   Master 


THE     CHATEAU  171 

when  he  made  his  reception  speech  at  the  Acad- 
emy. "  One  evening  upon  the  very  threshold  of 
Roncevaux  I  left  the  Master.  I  had  accompa- 
nied him  to  the  last  turn  of  the  road  of  Valcarlos. 
He  was  to  go  on  his  way,  I  was  to  descend  the 
hill  again,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  come  between 
him  and  Charlemagne.  Standing  beneath  an  oak 
mighty  as  was  his  genius,  near  a  spring  clear  as 
was  his  conscience,  he  waved  me  a  last  good-bye. 
Then  at  the  turn  of  the  road  he  disappeared  — 
as  he  has  just  now  disappeared  from  our  eyes  to 
mount  still  higher." 

I  came  back  from  my  memories  to  hear  the 
Professor  say  in  a  less  scientific  tone  than  usual, 
"  There  is  no  more  delightful  task  for  the  scholar 
than  to  enter  painstakingly  into  the  past,  and  to 
find  amid  his  researches  the  unchangeableness 
and  freshness  of  human  nature.  The  same  sins 
and  the  same  virtues  have  existed   since  time 

began  and  "     Here  the  Patriot  interrupted 

him. 

"  And  it  is  the  highest  duty  of  every  man  who 
loves  his  country  to  make  the  virtues  of  the 
past,  as  incarnated  in  great  men,  live  again  and 
so  keep  alive  in  every  generation  the  power  to 
appreciate  what  is  noble  in  its  own  land." 


172       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

"  Yes,"  said  the  gentle  Hostess,  looking  affec- 
tionately at  the  youngest  Academician,  "  and  the 
poet  who  can  understand  the  soul  of  a  hero  and 
make  him  live  and  speak  again,  so  that  thousands 
laugh  and  weep  to  hear  him,  has  done  even  more, 
for  he  has  known  how  to  touch  the  heart  of  his 
people." 

I  was  sitting  beside  la  petite  grand'mere  and  at 
this  point  she  spoke,  patting  my  hand  gently  the 
while.  "  The  soul  of  the  hero  belongs  to  no  one 
country  and  to  no  one  generation.  A  country- 
man of  this  child  taught  me  as  no  one  else  ever 
did  the  simple  beauty  and  heroism  of  Jeanne 
d'Arc.  Perhaps,"  and  here  la  petite  grand'mere 
smiled  enigmatically,  "  perhaps  it  is  because  he 
is  a  humorist,  but  I  assure  you  that  he  has  under- 
stood the  heart  of  a  woman,  of  a  heroine,  and  it 
is  the  same,  be  it  French  or  Polish  or  American. 
In  heroism  there  is  no  distinction  of  sex  or  race." 

I  drew  nearer  to  la  petite  grand'mlre,  for  I  felt 
a  warmer  feeling  at  the  heart  and  a  deeper  thrill 
of  sympathy  for  her  and  all  she  represented.  If 
we  had  the  same  conceptions  about  the  real 
things  of  life,  of  what  little  consideration  were 
local  ideas  and  provincial  training  and  so-called 
national  differences? 


THE     CHATEAU  173 

The  moon  was  silvering  the  little  lake  as  I  sat 
for  a  while  in  my  deep  window,  feeling  the  velvet 
air  of  night  touch  my  cheeks.  The  trees  here 
are  too  stately,  the  grounds  too  vast  for  me  to 
feel  a  sense  of  intimacy,  as  I  do  with  my  dear 
wall-encircled  garden  in  Paris.  There  we  can 
whisper  secrets  to  each  other  and  the  convent 
walls  hold  them  fast,  but  here  I  scarcely  dare 
think,  lest  some  indiscreet  breeze  snatch  my  fool- 
ish thoughts  and  whirl  and  toss  them  to  the  other 
side  of  the  chateau,  and  heaven  knows  who  might 
hear  them !  But  I  do  allow  myself  to  think  with 
a  grateful  glow  of  la  petite  grand'mere  and  her 
words. 

There  are  words  so  unfortunately  uttered  that 
they  fix  themselves  in  the  memory  like  milestones, 
where  they  stand  as  marks  to  show  the  distance 
which  is  separating  us  from  our  friends,  while 
there  are  others  so  fitly  spoken  that  they  are  like 
the  warm  pressure  of  a  hand  welcoming  us  to  a 
new  and  lovely  home. 


XXI 

When  East  Meets  West 

"  East  is  East  and  West  is  West 
And  never  the  twain  shall  meet." 

T  DON'T  know  why  this  little  couplet  should 
-*•  have  been  ringing  in  my  ears  when  I  awoke 
in  the  morning  on  the  day  before  we  left  the 
chateau.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  warm 
discussion  we  had  had  the  evening  before,  when 
the  Patriot  broke  forth  into  a  tirade  against  the 
poetical  tricks  of  such  writers  as  Kipling,  and 
showed  an  animosity  that  would  have  been  pain- 
ful had  it  not  been  slightly  ludicrous.  The  coup- 
let haunted  me  in  the  obsessive  and  annoying 

174 


WHEN    EAST    MEETS     WEST       175 

way  a  jingle  sometimes  has,  even  when  I  mounted 
and  rode  away  with  Philippe  on  our  long-planned- 
for  ride  to  the  town  by  the  sea.  I  amused  myself 
by  teaching  it  to  him  and  then  teased  him  laugh- 
ingly about  his  accent.  He  speaks  his  vowels  so 
musically  and  touches  his  consonants  so  lightly 
that  he  even  inflates  our  wretched  little  definite 
article  with  some  self  respect. 

The  morning  was  glorious,  with  the  sunshine 
flooding  all  the  hills  and  lighting  up  the  still  dewy 
valleys.  The  joy  of  just  being  was  an  intoxi- 
cation and  my  heart  beat  with  the  happiness  of 
living,  a  happiness  that  invaded  every  part  of  me 
and  made  my  nerves  tingle  deliciously.  It  was 
just  the  kind  of  morning  to  have  a  good  horse 
under  you,  to  feel  yourself  one  with  him,  and 
to  gallop  over  the  hard  roads,  the  breeze  blowing 
against  your  face,  and  never  a  care  in  your  mind 
as  to  when  it  would  end,  to  feel  exultingly  that 
you  could  gallop  on  thus  forever  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  We  did  not  talk  very  much. 
In  the  first  place  we  could  n't,  for  conversation 
cannot  very  well  be  carried  on  when  your  horses 
are  taking  long  swinging  leaps  and  the  wind 
makes  a  rushing  noise  in  your  ears,  and  in  the 
second  place  it  had  been  rather  hard  to  talk  to 


176       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

Philippe  for  the  last  day  or  two.  Something 
seemed  to  have  clouded  our  lovely  friendship. 
Philippe  has,  ever  since  I  first  knew  him,  been  a 
dear  audacious  fellow  and  I've  let  him  say  nice 
poetic  things  to  me  that  seemed  all  right,  because 
they  had  a  real  literary  value.  Besides,  he 
nearly  always  talked  this  way  when  other  people 
were  around.  Of  course  no  one  heard  what  he 
said,  but  there  was  always  danger  of  some  one 
overhearing,  and  that  made  it  seem  all  right  for 
me  to  listen.  When  we  happened  to  be  really 
alone,  we  always  talked  of  very  serious  things, 
of  his  work  on  Pascal,  of  the  career  of  diplomat 
which  his  father  wanted  him  to  follow,  of  poetry 
and  literature  and  all  sorts  of  nice  things.  But 
since  we  came  to  the  chateau  it 's  been  different. 
The  atmosphere  perhaps  has  changed  things.  At 
any  rate  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  say  trifling  things 
here  and  it  seems  that  every  one  ought  to  be 
very  simple  and  straight-forward  and  truthful. 
Maybe  Philippe  has  felt  a  difference,  too,  for 
when  we  have  been  together  he  has  n't  been  the 
same,  and  we  both  experience  a  preliminary 
awkwardness  of  self-consciousness  before  we  get 
fairly  launched  into  the  conversation.  It  is  n't  a 
bit  pleasant  and  it  makes  one  surmise  all  sorts  of 


WHEN    EAST    MEETS     WEST       177 

ridiculous  things.  I  don!t  like  to  have  to  wonder 
whether  a  person  likes  me  or  not.  I  want  to  be 
very  sure  that  he  does,  so  that  I  can  devote  my 
energies  and  intellect  to  speculating  on  my  own 
feelings  in  the  matter. 

Now,  up  to  this  time,  I  have  n't  worried  at  all 
as  to  Philippe's  attitude  toward  me :  I  just  knew 
he  liked  me  and  the  only  question  that  bothered 
me  was  how  much  I  should  let  him  like  me. 
But  here  at  the  chateau,  in  this  place  where 
generations  of  culture  look  down  on  me,  where 
I  feel  a  certain  heretofore  unfelt,  sharp  con- 
trast between  my  own  crudity  and  the  ripe 
wisdom  of  all  about  me,  I  have  become  sud- 
denly very  conscious  of  the  difference  between 
the  mental  culture  of  two  or  three  generations 
and  that  of  forty.  When  I  think  that  the  peo- 
ple at  home  consider  me  an  uncomfortable 
phenomenon  of  learning,  and  speak  of  me  as  a 
person  who  is  "  real  literary,"  I  feel  a  sinking 
sensation  and  a  hot  flush  comes  to  my  cheeks. 
I  try  to  uphold  my  courage  with  the  reflection 
that  we  are  a  great  people,  that  ancestors  are 
much  less  important  than  posterity,  that  we  have 
done  marvels  as  a  nation.  All  in  vain.  My  dig- 
nity oozes  out,  and  I  feel  very  flabby  and  unfit  to 


178       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

appear  among  those  I  would  fain  impress.  All 
these  things  had  made  us  change  places  as  it  were, 
and  now  I  found  myself  anxiously  waiting  for 
Philippe  to  begin  a  conversation,  and  I  had  to 
make  several  trials  before  I  was  really  comfort- 
ably in  the  running.  This  was  most  humiliating, 
and  I  made  vast  efforts  to  conceal  my  real  feel- 
ings and  I  kept  wishing  that  things  might  go 
back  to  their  old  friendly  way,  when  I,  at  least, 
had  no  doubts.  Doubts  are  horrid,  especially 
when  you  have  them  about  yourself.  On  this 
particular  morning  the  gallop  broke  down  any 
artificial  barriers  that  self-consciousness  had  set 
up,  and  when  our  horses  fell  into  a  slower  gait  I 
forgot  all  about  analyzing  myself  and  was  simply 
happy.  Philippe  looked  very  tall  and  strong  on 
his  big  bay  horse  and  it  was  good  to  be  beside 
him. 

Our  principal  errand  to  the  town  by  the  sea 
was  to  visit  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dupont. 
Their  plain  and  unromantic  name  gave  no  hint 
of  the  poetic  story  of  their  lives  as  Philippe  told 
it  to  me  that  morning. 


XXII 

The  Romance  of  Mademoiselle 
Donatienne 

T\yTANY  years  before  Mademoiselle  Dona- 
■*■  tienne  Fabre  was  the  belle  of  the  town  by 
the  sea.  She  was  tall  and  slim  and  dark-eyed, 
with  the  gayest  of  natures  and  the  tenderest  of 
hearts.  She  loved  old  women  and  children  best, 
and  the  young  men  of  the  town  sighed  in  vain 
for  her.  There  was  one  in  particular,  a  quiet 
silent  fellow  who  was  known  as  old  mere 
Dupont's  son.  His  father  had  been  watchmaker 
and  jeweler  to  the  town  and  when  he  died  la  mere 
Dupont  carried  on  the  business  and  brought  up 
Pierre  under  a  rule  of  iron.  Pierre  was  now 
nominal  master,  but  the  legend  over  the  shop 
Dupont  veuve,  successeur,  spoke  the  truth,  for 
the  Widow  Dupont  still  ruled  and  Pierre  was  a 
dutiful  and  submissive  son.  The  widow  Dupont 
was  very  large  and  stout,  with  sparkling  black 
eyes  and  cheeks  of  rosy  red,  but  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  were  drawn  lugubriously  down,  and 
before  the  public  she  always  presented  the  pic- 

179 


180       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ture  of  the  inconsolable  one,  the  light  of  whose 
life  had  gone  out.  Behind  the  closed  shutters, 
however,  and  when  alone  with  Pierre,  her  activi- 
ties were  devoted  to  devising  ways  and  means  by 
which  the  tidy  sum  left  by  the  lamented  Dupont 
should  be  doubled  and  perhaps  trebled.  Pierre 
had  a  soul  for  other  things,  he  lacked  acquisi- 
tiveness, he  had  a  taste  for  romance  and  poetry 
which  he  surreptitiously  fed  by  furtive  reading 
of  the  feuilleton,  or  by  a  stray  copy  of  Bernardin 
de  St.  Pierre,  or  Chateaubriand,  that  fell  in  his 
way.  But  he  was  a  dutiful  soul  and  so  he 
plodded  along  his  daily  rounds  and  never  dis- 
puted with  his  filial  destiny  but  replied  mildly  to 
her  oft  repeated  and  irritatingly  minute  injunc- 
tions, "  Mais  oui,  ma  mbre,  ne  finquiete  pas " 

But  when  once  the  radiance  of  Mademoiselle 
Donatienne's  beauty  had  lighted  up  the  soul  of 
the  faithful  Pierre  it  was  destined  never  to  grow 
dim  and  the  love  awakened  glowed  steadily 
through  storm  and  sunshine.  Pierre,  alas!  was 
not  handsome.  He  was  short  and  showed  an 
early  predisposition  to  stoutness.  His  face  was 
round,  his  features  undistinguished,  but  his  soul 
was  poetic  even  though  consigned  to  the  most 
prosaic  and  homely  of  earthly  tenements  of  clay. 


MADEMOISELLE    DONATIENNE     181 

And  so  he  worshipped  Mademoiselle  Donatienne, 
at  first  at  a  distance  and  then  gradually  embold- 
ened, he  came  nearer  to  his  divinity.  His  moth- 
er's violent  opposition  developed  in  him  a  gentle 
obstinacy  which  nothing  could  move.  The  widow 
Dupont  had  other  plans  for  Dupont  fils,  succes- 
seur,  and  had  already  made  overtures  to  a  neigh- 
boring maiden  lady  of  a  certain  age  who 
possessed  property,  and  a  large  nose,  which  was 
always  red  at  the  end.  So  the  widow  Dupont 
looked  with  strong  disfavor  on  her  son's  leaning 
toward  the  fair  Donatienne  and  resolved  to 
break  it  off  promptly.  But  Pierre  showed  an 
inactive  resistance  to  all  her  efforts,  which  baf- 
fled her  completely. 

Then  came  a  tragedy  into  the  life  of 
Donatienne.  A  dimness  came  over  her  bright 
eyes  and,  when  they  took  her  to  a  famous  Paris 
doctor,  who  was  at  the  neighboring  seaside  resort, 
he  shook  his  head  and  said  there  was  little  hope, 
that  perhaps  some  time  later  on  there  might  be 
an  operation,  but  for  the  present  it  must  mean 
darkness.  So  Donatienne  passed  from  happy 
daylight  into  black  night,  but  her  courage  never 
forsook  her.  She  was  less  gay  and  she  was 
more  tender  than  ever  with  little  children.     Her 


182       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

lovers  forsook  her,  of  course,  for  none  of  them 
could  think  of  undertaking  the  burden  of  a  blind 
wife.  Pierre  alone  was  faithful  and  despite  his 
mother's  commands,  taunts,  and  finally  entrea- 
ties, he  continued  to  go  steadily  to  the  little 
house  where  Mademoiselle  Donatienne  sat  doing 
interminable  knitting.  He  read  to  her  and 
talked  to  her,  but  he  did  more  of  the  former  than 
of  the  latter,  for  he  had  never  been  very  articu- 
late. Finally,  during  a  fit  of  rage,  the  widow 
Dupont  was  stricken  with  paralysis  and  her 
sharp  tongue  was  silenced.  Her  huge  frame  lay 
helpless  on  the  bed  and  refused  to  do  the  bidding 
of  the  mind  that  still  seemed  active,  and  that 
strove  to  express  its  will  in  the  restless  fierce 
black  eyes  that  followed  every  movement  in  the 
room.  After  a  year  of  this  enforced  silence  on 
his  mother's  part,  Pierre  dared  to  tell  Made- 
moiselle Donatienne  of  his  love  and  begged  her 
to  marry  him,  but  she  refused  to  bring  to  him 
an  added  burden.  She  was  poor,  but  she  could 
help  to  support  herself,  and  she  was  happy  in 
his  friendship.  None  of  his  arguments  or 
prayers  availed  with  her,  for  Pierre  became  elo- 
quent in  the  eagerness  of  his  desire. 


MADEMOISELLE    DONATIENNE     183 

The  years  passed.  The  widow  Dupont  clung 
fiercely  to  life,  as  if  she  knew  that  only  thus 
could  she  keep  her  son  from  marrying  a  blind 
wife.  Pierre  grew  bald  and  stout;  Mademoiselle 
became  more  and  more  Madonna-like.  She  was 
always  knitting,  and  she  always  had  some  children 
about  her,  except  when  Monsieur  Pierre  came, 
and  then  either  because  of  established  custom 
or  from  instinct  they  were  left  alone.  Pierre 
would  read  from  the  Petit  Journal,  and  when 
that  had  been  discussed  he  would  bring  out  a 
well-worn  copy  of  Chateaubriand  and  read  of 
the  ill-fated  love  and  wildly  improbable  lives  of 
Atala  and  Chactas.  Once  in  a  while  at  some 
melancholy  plaint  of  the  gloomy  hero,  or  at  some 
new  misfortune  of  the  beautiful  heroine,  Made- 
moiselle Donatienne  would  wipe  away  a  tear  and 
Monsieur  Pierre  would  stop,  pull  out  a  huge 
handkerchief,  unfold  it,  apply  the  exact  middle 
of  it  to  the  offending  member,  and  blow  violently. 

But  there  came  a  morning  when  the  widow 

l 

Dupont  did  not  open  her  eyes,  and  the  helpless 
body  that  had  been  still  for  so  long  took  on  a 
more  rigid  look.  Pierre  dutifully  arranged  for 
an  imposing  funeral  and  he  ordered  an  enormous 


184       A      GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

purple  bead  wreath  to  be  laid  on  the  coffin,  the 
like  of  which  had  never  been  seen  in  the  town 
by  the  sea. 

A  few  days  after  the  funeral  Monsieur  Pierre 
with  a  half-concealed  look  of  satisfaction  went 
into  the  room,  which  had  been  occupied  by  his 
mother,  and  opened  a  chest,  which  had  remained 
firmly  closed  ever  since  his  mother's  illness.  He 
unlocked  it  now  without  the  least  hesitation,  drew 
therefrom  a  plump  woollen  stocking  and  emptied 
its  contents  on  the  table.  When  he  had  counted 
the  coins  his  satisfaction  became  quite  open,  and 
with  a  smile  on  his  face  he  gathered  the  money 
together,  took  it  to  the  old  notary  and  asked  for 
bank  notes.  The  next  morning  there  was  a 
great  stir  in  the  town  by  the  sea,  for  it  was 
rumored,  then  stated  as  a  fact,  that  Monsieur 
Pierre  had  taken  the  early  morning  train  for 
Paris.  The  chef  de  gare  himself  had  sold  him 
his  ticket  and  when  he  had  said  to  him,  with 
casual  cunning,  "  Monsieur  Dupont  goes  to  Paris 
to  see  about  the  inheritance?"  Monsieur  Pierre 
had  only  smiled  and  said  enigmatically,  "  The 
weather  is  about  to  change  and  we  shall  have 
sunshine  to-day." 

The  stir  of  the  first  day  was  but  as  the  gentle 


MADEMOISELLE    DONATIENNE     185 

breeze  to  the  roaring  tornado  compared  with 
the  excitement  produced  when,  two  days  after, 
Monsieur  Pierre  was  seen  descending  from  the 
Paris  train,  accompanied  by  a  tall  man,  who 
walked  beside  Monsieur  Pierre  with  a  quick, 
business-like  air.  They  went  directly,  not  to  the 
house  still  bearing  the  legend  Dupont  veuve,  suc- 
cesseur,  but,  most  astounding  thing  of  all,  to  the 
house  of  Mademoiselle  Donatienne  Fabre.  They 
disappeared  therein,  and  then  the  excitement  took 
voice  and  it  was  said  that  this  was  the  famous 
surgeon,  who  could  perform  marvellous  cures  on 
the  blind,  and  that  he  had  come  on  purpose  to 
heal  Mademoiselle  Donatienne.  And  when  the 
children  heard  this,  some  of  them  took  to  crying 
softly  lest  their  beloved  Ma'mselle  might  be  hurt. 
Everything  was  known  by  nightfall,  and  it  was 
the  talk  at  all  the  little  cafe  restaurants  that 
Monsieur  Pierre  had  taken  his  mother's  hoarded 
money  —  they  all  knew  she  was  an  old  miser  — 
and  had  gone  to  Paris  to  bring  the  great  man 
down  who  was  to  remove  the  blindness  from 
Ma'mselle.  The  operation  would  be  in  the 
morning  and  no  one  might  know  how  it  would 
turn  out.  When,  the  next  morning,  the  surgeon 
was  seen  to  go  to  Mademoiselle  Donatienne's,  a 


186       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

great  hush  fell  on  the  town  by  the  sea  and  their 
silence  spoke  more  eloquently  than  prayers,  of 
how  close  to  the  hearts  of  all  was  the  fate  of  the 
Madonna-faced  blind  woman.  As  for  Monsieur 
Pierre,  no  one  saw  him,  for  he  had  shut  himself 
up  in  his  mother's  room,  behind  the  shop,  and 
the  iron  shutters  of  the  night  were  still  down. 
He  would  not  have  them  opened  until  he  knew 
that  Donatienne  would  see  again.. 

After  a  time  of  agonizing  suspense  a  whisper 
was  heard,  "  It  has  been  successful.  He  says 
that  she  will  see  again."  The  great  surgeon 
went  to  Monsieur  Pierre  and  after  a  while  the 
little  errand  boy  came  running  out  and  began 
winding  up  the  shutters.  The  display  of 
watches,  a  tons  prix,  glittered  in  the  sunlight; 
and  soon  Monsieur  Pierre,  a  little  pale  and  trem- 
bling about  the  mouth,  was  at  the  disposition  of 
the  public. 

The  great  surgeon  went  back  to  Paris  the  next 
morning  and,  after  long  days  spent  in  a  darkened 
room,  Mademoiselle  Donatienne  came  gradually 
back  to  the  light,  and  the  first  human  face 
she  saw  was  the  round  smiling  countenance  of 
Monsieur  Pierre  —  no  longer  the  young  face  of 
the  lover  she  remembered,  not  in  the  least  resem- 


MADEMOISELLE    DONATIENNE     187 

bling  the  classic  features  of  the  romantic  lovers 
they  read  of  together,  but  fat,  and  to  one  who 
knew  him  not,  very  commonplace.  If  she  suf- 
fered any  disappointment  she  never  showed  it. 
When  the  excitement  had  died  down,  there 
were  many  who  felt  a  reaction  from  the  un- 
usual indulgence  in  sentimentality,  who  shook 
their  heads  and  said  that  Monsieur  Pierre  had 
doubtless  spent  a  mad  sum  of  money  on  this,  and 
that  it  was  a  question  whether  it  was  worth  while 
to  spend  it  on  an  old  maid  who  had  grown  quite 
used  to  her  condition,  and  who  got  along  very 
nicely  as  it  was.  However,  no  one  criticised 
when,  one  Saturday,  Monsieur  Pierre  and  Made- 
moiselle Donatienne  went  to  the  mairie  and 
signed  some  papers  and  the  next  day  received 
the  priestly  benediction.  The  sign  of  Dupont 
veuve,  successeur,  was  painted  over,  and  instead 
there  appeared  Pierre  Dupont,  Horloger. 


XXIII 

The  Revelation 

\  S  Philippe  finished  telling  me  this  story  our 
■*■  *■  horses'  hoofs  struck  the  cobble  stones  of 
the  long  main  street  and  we  walked  them  up  to 
the  very  sign  of  the  story.  Monsieur  Pierre 
Dupont  himself  came  out  to  greet  us,  looking  as 
little  like  the  hero  of  a  romantic  tale  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  imagine.  His  rubicund  visage  beamed 
delightedly  as  he  helped  me  dismount,  and  he 
was  profuse  in  his  thanks  to  Monsieur  Philippe 
for  having  come  all  this  distance  to  bring  the 
annual  greeting  from  the  chateau.  Madame 
Dupont  would  be  enchanted  to  see  us  if  we  would 
pass  to  the  salon.     We  went  into  the  dark  stuffy 

188 


THE     REVELATION  189 

little  room  beyond  the  shop.  When  my  eyes 
had  adjusted  themselves  to  the  twilight  I  saw  on 
the  centretable  an  old-fashioned  copy  of  Atala. 

I  was  somewhat  prepared  for  the  sweet  spir- 
itual face  of  Madame  Dupont,  whose  large  eyes 
seemed  to  look  through  surfaces  down  into  the 
soul  of  things.  But  my  imagination,  fired  by 
Philippe's  way  of  telling  a  story,  was  not  pre- 
pared for  the  matter-of-fact  little  household. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  had  any  definite  idea  of 
what  I  expected,  but  the  outside  of  the  simple 
menage  betrayed  nothing  of  the  romantic  history 
of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dupont,  except  of 
course  the  volume  of  Chateaubriand. 

"  I  suppose  that  rotund  little  man  is  a  hero  in 
the  eyes  of  Madame  Dupont,"  quoth  I,  as  we 
were  going  homeward. 

"  Yes,  and  she  is  to  him  the  realization  of  a 
beautiful  dream,"  said  Philippe. 

We  were  passing  a  little  church  in  the  bend 
of  the  road  just  outside  the  town.  A  white- 
robed  procession  of  children  was  marching 
toward  it.  The  little  girls  wore  long  white 
skirts,  which  they  managed  awkwardly  but 
proudly,  and  veils  floated  over  their  thin  shoul- 
ders.    Some  of  them  had  an  air  of  self-conscious 


190      A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

importance  that  showed  itself  in  preoccupation 
with  their  dress,  while  others  walked  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  hands  folded  over  their  little 
prayer-books,  touched  by  the  mystic  significance 
of  the  communion  ceremony.  The  boys  fol- 
lowed, dressed  in  new  black  suits,  with  bows  of 
white  satin  ribbon  floating  from  their  shoulders, 
and  broad  white  collars.  The  proud  parents 
walked  alongside,  but  at  some  distance  from  the 
procession,  looking  with  satisfied  eyes  on  the 
little  brides  of  Christ  and  feeling  that  the  last 
great  step  in  the  religious  training  of  their  chil- 
dren was  about  to  be  accomplished.  The  more 
provident  of  the  peasant  mothers  had  baskets 
with  little  cakes  of  brioche  in  them,  so  that  as 
soon  as  the  spiritual  necessities  of  their  children 
had  been  ministered  unto,  they  might  feed  their 
poor  fasting  bodies  with  something  delectable 
and  substantial. 

We  halted  a  moment  to  look  at  them  and 
passed  on,  touched  by  the  sight,  and  silent. 
Suddenly  I  heard  an  exclamation  from  Philippe, 
and  looking  up  I  saw  an  automobile  coming  at 
breakneck  speed  down  the  road.  As  it  came 
nearer  we  noticed  that  it  had  a  curious  swaying 
motion  as  though  not  well  controlled.     We  rode 


THE     REVELATION  191 

up  on  the  side  out  of  its  way.  I  looked  at 
Philippe.  He  was  staring  at  the  oncoming  car 
with  a  hard,  strained  look.  I  followed  his  gaze 
and  noticed  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  car  but 
the  chauffeur.  He  was  sitting  in  a  queer  hud- 
dled way  and  his  head  moved  foolishly  with  the 
jolts  of  the  machine.  As  the  car  passed  us 
Philippe  cried,  "  Mon  Dieu,  les  enfants!"  and 
wheeled  his  horse,  digging  his  spurs  in  deep. 
I  think  my  horse  must  have  been  stunned,  as 
was  I.  I  turned  and  sat  nervelessly  watching. 
It  came  over  me  as  a  horrid  dream  that  the 
chauffeur  was  ill  and  losing  control  of  his  car, 
that  the  machine  was  a  frenzied  living  thing,  mad 
with  sudden  hope  of  liberty,  and  that  Philippe  was 
galloping  after.  Faster  and  faster  went  his 
horse,  and  I  watched.  The  nerveless  feeling 
gave  way  to  exulting  pride  in  the  man  on  the 
horse  and  then,  just  before  they  reached  the  turn 
in  the  road,  to  a  gripping  fear  that  made  my 
heart  beat  with  a  stabbing  pain.  For  I  saw 
Philippe  alongside,  ahead;  then  I  saw  Philippe 
rise  and  he  seemed  to  shoot  off  his  horse  into 
the  car.  I  covered  my  eyes  with  my  hands,  and 
I  found  myself  sobbing  hard,  dry  sobs.  Then 
I  looked  again.     The  car  was  out  of  sight.     It 


192       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

had  made  the  turn.  Philippe  must  have  con- 
trolled it  and,  giving  my  startled  horse  a  sudden 
cut  of  the  whip,  I  dashed  down  the  road.  It 
had  happened  so  quickly  and  we  had  felt  so 
much  in  a  few  seconds,  that  it  seemed  quite 
natural  to  find  near  the  church  a  procession  dis- 
appearing into  its  cool  aisles,  a  procession  whose 
rear  guard  was  somewhat  distracted  from  the 
contemplation  of  holy  things  by  the  sudden 
advent  of  one  of  those  wicked  Parisian  auto- 
mobiles driven  apparently  by  two  reckless  chauf- 
feurs, and  accompanied  by  a  riderless  horse. 
The  machine  had  stopped  suddenly  just  before 
it  reached  them,  and  now  one  of  the  drivers 
seemed  to  be  asleep.  Those  Parisians  were 
astonishing!  The  white- robed  procession  dis- 
appeared entirely,  the  murmured  tones  of  a 
sleepy  priest  were  heard  and  the  rustling  sound 
of  a  kneeling  congregation. 

The  chauffeur  died  soon  after.  The  physician 
whom  we  found  said  that  racing  men  often  died 
suddenly  thus  from  an  attack  of  the  heart. 

It  was  late  when  we  at  last  reached  the  chateau, 
but  as  we  rode  home  in  the  deepening  twilight 
there  was  no  doubt  in  my  heart  any  longer  and 


THE     REVELATION  193 

when  Philippe  broke  the  silence  I  knew  what  I 
would  answer. 

The  foolish  little  couplet  of  the  morning  came 
into  our  minds  and  Philippe  repeated  with  his 
adorable  accent: 

"  East  is  East  and  West  is  West 
And  never  the  twain  shall  meet." 
"  C'est  un  menteur,  ce  Kipling/'     .     .     .     And 
Philippe  proved  his  statement. 


&m&. 


XXIV 

Evening  in  the  Garden 

HPHE  chateau  had  now  new  memories  clus- 


1 


tering  about  it,  and  yet  I  was  glad  to  come 


back  to  Paris.  Only  a  few  days  were  left  before 
going  to  my  real  home  across  the  sea.  Was  it 
to  be  my  real  home  any  longer  ?  We  had  decided 
to  keep  our  secret  until  Philippe  could  come  and 
conquer  the  Anglo-Saxon.  Not  even  the  gentle 
Hostess  was  to  know  until  paternal  consent  had 
been  obtained.  Only  the  Garden  was  to  know. 
The  last  evening  came  all  too  soon.  It  was  a 
Friday  just  before  the  Fete  Dieu.  Philippe  had 
come  to  dinner  and  as  the  evenings  had  grown 
longer  there  was  a  bit  ot  twilight  after  we  came 

194 


EVENING     IN     THE     GARDEN     195 

from  the  dining  room  and  before  Lucien  lighted 
the  lamps.  Philippe  was  beside  me  on  the 
balcony.  La  petite  grand'mere,  who  feared  a 
courant  d'air,  was  seated  in  the  salon  with  the 
gentle  Hostess  and  little  Germaine.  Their 
voices,  grown  so  dear  to  me,  came  in  broken 
phrases  as  though  the  parting  had  already  begun. 
Philippe  and  I  looked  out  into  the  twilight. 
Down  in  the  convent  garden,  separated  from  ours 
by  the  low  ivy-covered  wall,  the  seven  or  eight 
remaining  nuns,  not  yet  driven  from  their  home, 
had  been  gliding  softly  and  quickly  about  among 
the  paths.  These  poor  nuns  wore  an  air  of 
pathetic  sorrow,  for  they  were  in  daily  expecta- 
tion of  being  compelled  to  leave  the  quiet  home 
that  had  been  theirs  for  years.  They  were  glori- 
fied by  the  tragic  beauty  of  something  that  is 
about  to  pass  away.  When  the  shadows  grew 
deeper  and  the  tall  trees  looked  black  against  the 
silvery  sky,  we  saw  these  silent  sisters  flit  from 
place  to  place  on  the  grass,  stoop,  rise  and  pass 
on.  And  everywhere  they  stopped  they  left  a 
wavering  greenish  light  like  a  captive  glow  worm. 
These  spots  of  light  grew  here  and  there  in  the 
grass,  and  marked  the  trail  of  the  black-robed 
figures  as  they  passed  from  bush  to  low  branch- 


196       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

ing  tree.  In  the  shadiest  part  of  the  Garden, 
where  the  trees  grew  close  together  and  the 
bushes  crowded  at  their  feet  and  the  vines  swung 
low,  there  stood  a  meek  drooping  figure  of  the 
Virgin.  About  her  the  lights  glowed  more 
radiantly  and  the  rude  carven  stone  took  on  a 
softened  human  outline,  and  Our  Mother  of 
Sorrows  seemed  to  look  with  gentle  and  infinite 
pity  on  the  sad  little  scene  before  her.  For  now 
there  came  from  the  convent  door  a  solemn  pro- 
cession of  black-robed  figures,  gliding  like  shad- 
ows down  the  winding  paths  past  the  huge  glow 
worms  in  the  grass  and  filing  around  the  image 
of  their  Lady.  As  they  walked  they  chanted  in 
the  clear,  high  passionless  tones  of  those  who 
live  out  of  the  world,  or  who  do  not  know  it  yet. 
The  hymn  was  addressed  to  Our  Lady  of  the 
Sacred  Heart,  an  appeal  to  one  who  had  known 
deepest  anguish  from  those  who  were  passing 
through  deep  waters  of  affliction.  A  silence  fell 
upon  them  when  they  at  last  stood  before  the 
image,  and  then  the  sweet  high  monotone  of 
the  oldest  sister  rose  and  fell  as  she  repeated  the 
prayers,  which  were  punctuated  by  murmured 
replies,  like  a  sudden  rustling  in  the  leaves. 
After  the  last  Amen  the  clear  soprano  voices 


EVENING     IN     THE     GARDEN     197 

were  heard  again,  the  song  rose  with  a  more 
poignant  note,  and  the  shadows  glided  back 
around  the  winding  paths  and  melted  away  into 
the  darkness  of  the  convent.  Then  the  glow 
worms  died  one  by  one,  the  Virgin  grew  more 
still  and  faded  into  the  whispering  background, 
and  the  Garden  was  dark  and  silent  save  for  the 
twittering  of  a  sleepless  bird. 

The  morning  has  come  and  I  must  say  good- 
bye. All  the  world  is  astir.  The  sun  is  shining 
gloriously,  the  merle  is  gayly  and  heartlessly 
singing  his  farewell  and  cares  little  for  the  pang 
I  feel  at  leaving  him. 

Jean  has  come  early  with  the  voiture  a  galerie 
and  is  already  busy  with  Lucien  taking  down  my 
trunks.  Jean,  our  old  Breton  butler,  brought 
me  over  from  America  and  he  feels  that  no  one 
else  can  successfully  take  care  of  Mademoiselle. 
He  has  had  a  happy  vacation  on  the  Breton  sands 
and  is  going  back  with  a  profound  contempt  for 
French  kitchens,  and  their  lack  of  modern  im- 
provements. 

I  swallow  my  coffee,  but  cannot  swallow  the 
lump  in  my  throat.  Then  quickly  I  turn  to 
embrace  Germaine,  still  half  asleep,  and  la  petite 


198       A     GARDEN     OF     PARIS 

grand'mere,  who  says,  "  If  it  were  only  au 
revoir,  but  for  me  it  is  adieu,"  and  then  my  per- 
fect Hostess.  Hurriedly  I  run  down  the  stairs  to 
hide  my  tears,  and  into  the  waiting  carriage. 
Up  at  the  window  and  framed  by  it,  are  the  faces 
of  those  who  have  been  so  dear  to  me  during  the 
last  months.  La  petite  grand'mere  calls  out  to 
Jean,  "  Take  good  care  of  our  dear  Mademoi- 
selle," and  Jean,  striking  a  fine  attitude,  replies, 
"  With  the  French  Government  guarding  the 
American  Republic,  nothing  can  go  wrong !  " 

The  driver  whips  up  his  horses,  we  go  clatter- 
ing out  of  the  stone-paved  court  and  into  the 
streets.  The  great  green  doors  close  upon  me 
and  now  they  seem  to  look  benevolently  at  me  as 
if  to  say,  "  Never  fear,  we  shall  guard  your  Gar- 
den and  keep  it  fresh  and  cool  and  sweet.  It 
will  wait  for  you  and  when  you  come  back, 
whether  weary  and  disappointed,  or  glad  and 
exulting,  it  will  be  here  to  calm  you  or  to  comfort 
you  and  to  give  you  great  joy." 


X 


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